Damage
by Arcole
Summary: COMPLETE. Artemis Entreri goes back home to Calimport. But is Calimport his home? Takes place after RotP. Basically, I can't just leave our boy AE in that kind of unresolved emotional turmoil. At least not without enjoying it a little first.
1. Chapter 1

Damage

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this stuff. I'm just playing with it. I hope Wizards doesn't mind.

Chapter One

Artemis Entreri stood at a distance from the ruined shell that once was The Copper Ante. Blast marks and fallen walls gave clear signs of magical attack as well as physical. His heart in his throat, he approached the devastated building cautiously. The damage was fresh, parts of the structure still smoldering from the fireballs.

The front door was gone, as was a significant section of the wall around it. The bar was a mess of shattered glass and blasted wood. Small crumpled forms lay scattered in and around it. A few of the less mutilated ones were recognizable from his previous stay, including a red cheeked barmaid that had repeatedly offered him a night he'd never forget. For a moment, her saucy wink superimposed itself over the gruesome sight before him.

Everyone was dead. The guildhouse had become a slaughterhouse.

Dwahvel.

Where was Dwahvel?

He raced through the building, searching for any sign of her. Mutilated halfling bodies lay everywhere, and he couldn't escape the smell of blood and ash.

Soon, his assassin's instincts had put together a picture of the attackers. A rival guild most likely. Humans judging from the angle of the blows and the types of weapons used. A trio of wizards working in tandem, but one working a little less enthusiastically than the others. Forced labor, perhaps.

He found her where he knew he would, in her office. He knew without looking that the body was hers from the tumble of brown curls cast over her face, from the curve of her hip as she lay there like a broken doll, from the dagger she held in her hand.

"Dwahvel?" he whispered almost tenderly as he knelt beside her. A pool of blood spread out onto the carpet beneath her head, marring its lovely floral pattern with a red stain. He also knew without looking that he shouldn't look. He shouldn't see what they'd done to her. He should instead look for clues, hit the streets in search of information. He should begin to bring retribution to bear on those responsible.

But he couldn't stop himself. He'd come all the way from Memnon with only one goal—to get back to his one real friend. To go home. He had to see her face again.

Now his hand moved of its own volition to push away the hair. It trembled a little as it met the soft ringlets. A few looped themselves around his fingertips as if seeking one more contact—as if saying goodbye.

Then he pushed back the tumble of curls and saw what remained of her.

With a gasp and a start, Entreri sat up in the darkness, one hand flying to his dagger, the other clutching Charon's Claw. The oasis was deserted. His sleep had not been disturbed by visitors or animals. Only by his own fears.

As he forced his heart to slow once more, he thought wryly to himself that after enduring this same nightmare every evening since he'd left Memnon and Jarlaxle behind, he should be used to it by now. He should realize that he was dreaming and be able to alter the dream. Or at least wake himself up.

But each moment of rest seemed to be filled with images of Dwahvel dead on the floor and himself arriving just too late to help her. He reached into his pocket to pull out a small obsidian statue. Once again, he considered calling the nightmare to his side, shortening his journey to minutes. Once again, he placed it back in his pocket.

He'd left all Jarlaxle's magical gifts behind he believed, only to find the statue somehow still in his pocket some distance down the road. It was simply too valuable to discard by the roadside, but he couldn't bring himself to use it.

Now, it came out of his pocket once again as Entreri considered the nature of his nightly torment. Could it be a warning rather than the fears of an overworked mind? Could he possibly get to Calimport in time to prevent the tragedy he kept dreaming of?

Dwahvel's face floated into his vision. He'd seen Dwahvel so many times in the face of Arrayan, the half-orc wizard of Vassa. He'd heard her voice in the tunes of Idalia's cursed flute. He'd often found himself playing a halfling tune he'd heard in the bar of the Copper Ante. The tune brought him peace when there was little to be found otherwise.

His hands began to move through the fingerings until he caught himself. But the memory of the flute alone was enough to stir up a wash of emotion in him. Images slid through his brain, each colliding chaotically with the others.

Sights of his childhood--Tosso-posh's leer, his mother's face fading away into the distance, eating scraps out of a garbage barrel—mixed unrepentantly with more current events--the death of Drizzt Do'Urden, the Underdark of Menzoberranzan, Ellery and Arrayan, the feel of Calihye beside him, Jarlaxle's apologetic look as Urshula prepared to destroy him, the final gasp of a miserable old priest.

He cried out against the onslaught, uncharacteristically dropping his weapons to put his head in his hands. This was what insanity felt like, he realized. All the events of one's life played back in one's head simultaneously.

And his life had been eventful. He could feel the grime of his past coating his skin. How many terrible things had he done to others? How many terrible things had been done to him? What would it take to put this madness to rest?

Dwahvel.

He had to get to her. She with her quiet advice, her uncanny ability to hear his heart when his words would not suffice. He had to get to her.

Then the image from his dream surfaced in his mind's eye. He could feel the little curls wrapping around his fingers again. He knew what lay beneath them.

With a cry of anger and anguish, he gathered his things rapidly and called to the nightmare. The large black beast barely paused long enough for him to mount before tearing through the desert to Calimport.

To Dwahvel.

Dwahvel Tiggerwillies stood before the bar, the early morning sun shining in through one of the front windows. Fortunately, the brawl of the night before had not shattered it again. A few weary patrons still lay sleeping it off in various corners and under tables and benches.

"Hard night last night," the barmaid Tinsey commented behind a yawn. "Aren't you ready for bed?"

"Definitely," Dwahvel commented. "You go on ahead. I'm just going to see the morning watch before I turn in."

She stepped carefully around a sleeping customer and headed down the hall to the guard office. "Sammidge, who's on morning watch?" she asked as she walked through the door.

Her captain of the guard answered, stating that he was already out on rounds.

"Be sure he locks the front door," Dwahvel replied. "I'm going to bed now and I don't want any unexpected visitors."

Sammidge assured her that he would personally check the door. She nodded and covered a yawn of her own with a dainty hand as she walked back past the bar headed upstairs.

The front door flew open with a crash as it slammed against a nearby table. Dwahvel looked up to see a tall man armed with dagger and sword silhouetted by the glare of the rising sun. She reached for her dagger and her alarm whistle, but once he'd taken a step into the gloom of the bar and out of the blinding sun, she could see his face.

"Artemis Entreri?" she asked with a note of genial surprise. "What are you doing here?" Then she thought of the manner of his entrance and followed up with, "Are you in trouble?" in a more serious voice.

"Is everything right here?" Entreri asked her in a curiously abrupt tone of voice. "Do you expect trouble of any kind?"

"Not today," she ventured, a question in her own voice. "What's going on, Artemis?"

Entreri looked around him with a practiced eye, scanning every inch of the room for potential dangers. "Put a double guard on for the next several days," he commanded. Then he walked past her upstairs to the room he'd used on his previous visit.

He fell into the soft, human-sized bed, and within seconds he'd been taken captive by a deep, dreamless sleep.

Dwahvel wasn't sure of what to make of her guest. When she went in to speak with him once she'd posted her double guard, he was so deeply asleep that her entrance didn't wake him. That in itself spoke volumes about Entreri's condition.

She watched him sleep for a moment. He'd cast himself across the bed face down, one hand pulling the pillow beneath his cheek. The other hand was cast carelessly beside him. Neither of his weapons were drawn or even in easy reach. Both still hung from the heavy belt that circled his waist, the scabbard of the terrifying Charon's Claw half trapped beneath his thigh.

He'd not even bothered to remove his boots or his traveling cloak. If it had been any other person than Artemis Entreri who lay sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, she'd have made an effort to relieve him of at least the worst of his burdens.

But touching a man as deadly as Entreri while he was asleep smacked of complete foolishness in her mind, and Dwahvel just let him be, closing the door gently behind her and hanging a note on it to prevent anyone else from disturbing his clearly much needed slumber.

Late that afternoon after she'd risen, she sat at her desk in the office working through a mound of receipts and requests for guild assistance. At a soft knock at the door, she rose to allow Entreri into the room.

He stood there, still disheveled, still armed, his cloak still hanging from his shoulders, and looked down at her with a most curious expression. Then he glanced down at the carpet beneath her feet and dropped to one knee, placing himself at her eye level.

She'd not had much chance to look at him from that perspective before.

There was a shadow behind his dark eyes—even deeper than she would have expected from a ruthless assassin. Lines of worry creased his forehead and there was a weariness about him. But his hair was as dark as ever with no signs of the silver threads that had begun to show in her own.

"Who's after you, Artemis?" she asked softly.

"No one," came his quiet answer, but his eyes stayed locked on hers.

"Then what is wrong?"

He didn't reply. Instead he reached up to take one of her curls in his fingers. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Dwahvel froze anxiously. What was wrong with him? The last time she'd seen him this close to the edge, he was being pursued by dark elves. What demons hounded him now?

With a boldness that surprised her, she reached out to touch his cheek. His skin was cold and he hadn't shaved in days. He leaned ever so slightly into her hand. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and dropped the curl, but didn't move away from her touch.

"Come have dinner with me in an hour," she commanded lightly. Then she leaned forward and gave him an impulsive kiss on the forehead before stepping back to make room for him to rise to his feet again. He merely nodded and left the room.

She truly didn't know what to make of him.

Over dinner, Entreri began the tale of his adventures since he'd last seen her. Details of the destruction of the crystal shard came easily to his lips, as did many of his adventures in the Bloodstone Lands.

He hesitated a moment over his description of Arrayan, but finally said, "She was very lovely." That alone triggered a raised eyebrow from Dwahvel, but she didn't push. He brought up Calihye, but failed to mention the relationship he'd had with her or the way she'd tried to kill him.

Of Memnon, all he could say was that he'd been there.

To Entreri's dismay, most of his tales seemed to be of Athrogate. Somehow, the crusty old dwarf was easier to talk about than anything else.

Dwahvel laughed easily at his humorous stories and shivered at his description of the fall of the dracolich Urshula. Despite the many holes in his accounting, it felt good to tell her as much as he could.

"So where did you leave Athrogate and Jarlaxle?" she asked at last.

"In Memnon."

"Do you plan to rejoin them?"

"No."

There was a long pause as Dwahvel waited for Entreri to comment further. But instead of continuing his tales, he turned to his dinner instead. They ate quietly, their conversation confined to the quality of the food in Dwahvel's kitchens. At last, she poured him a glass of port and they moved to sit by the fire in silence.

Entreri looked into the flames, letting them mesmerize him. Her liquor was as good as her food, he thought to himself as he finished the port. She offered to pour him another, but he refused. He wanted his wits about him as much as possible. Customers would begin to arrive in earnest and Dwahvel would have business to conduct. He wanted to be on hand as security should she need him.

When he said as much to her, Dwahvel shook her head. "Are you certain you want your presence in Calimport to be common knowledge?" she asked. "Remember the amount of trouble you left in your wake on your last visit."

Entreri had to consider her words. His presence could possibly mean trouble for Dwahvel with the rival guilds.

Then she disturbed him further by asking, "What are your plans?"

He looked over at her where she sat in a small easychair, her feet curled up casually beneath her skirts. Plans?

"I don't know," he heard himself admit.

She rose from the chair in one fluid movement, placing one hand on his arm as she passed by the sofa where he sat. "You know you can stay here as long as you want," she answered. "If you want to re-enter the guild world, let me know. I'll do what I can to make this happen."

Then she looked directly into his eyes. "But you know how difficult it will be. You know what will happen when the world knows you are back," she cautioned. "Do you really want that life again, Artemis?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

"Then you'd best be thinking what you do want." And with that Dwahvel headed downstairs to conduct business with the halfling world of Calimport.

While Dwahvel's attention was diverted fully onto business, leaving her precious little time to wonder what Entreri was thinking, he was without diversion and spent the entire evening considering her words.

In all his life, he'd never had this kind of choice.

From his first entry into Pasha Basadoni's guild as a mere boy, his life had been directed by the Pashas, following their orders, doing their dirty work. He'd lived to serve. To serve and to grow in power for himself.

He'd lived to build his reputation and his skills as a fighter and assassin. He'd become the most dangerous man in Calimshan. And the most feared.

But all his skills were meaningless in the face of the drow. First Drizzt Do'Urden—his mirror, his enemy, his nemesis—then Jarlaxle and the hosts of Menzoberranzan. His time with the dark elves had humbled him. He'd been less than nothing in their eyes. Less than nothing in his own after a while. If Do'Urden hadn't helped him escape the Underdark, he would have killed himself within a fortnight despite Jarlaxle's protection.

Jarlaxle. The thought of his former companion brought a bitter smile to his face. He could certainly be entertaining, but most of the time Entreri couldn't help but believe he was the entertainment. Perhaps Jarlaxle had meant it when he'd assured him he never meant to harm him. But he'd certainly used him. And manipulated him. And helped him face down the worst of his demons in his own way.

But with Jarlaxle he'd never had a choice either. He was as demanding as any Pasha and many times more powerful. Even now, Entreri knew the dark elf would cross his path again, demanding Entreri's assistance or companionship or soul.

He had no idea what he would say to him either. It did no good to tell him no. Entreri felt certain that even death would be no release. Whatever plane of hell Entreri found himself traversing in the afterlife, Jarlaxle would have connections there and would be more than able to find him.

Perhaps, he thought wryly, he should devote himself in service to Lolth, the one deity Jarlaxle would be disinclined to visit. Or he could devote himself to someone equally repellent to the dark elf's sensibilities—Ilmater perhaps or another of the goodly gods, he thought cynically. He could even take lessons from Cadderly Bonaduce perhaps—if his frightening monk wife didn't kill him on sight.

But not Selune, Entreri thought with a shudder. Memories of his encounter with the Divine Voice raced through him, filling him with rage and disgust. And self-loathing.

He was beyond grateful that he'd never sired a child. He'd never passed on the legacy of corruption and weakness, of gullibility and viciousness that marked his own birth and childhood.

Memnon had stirred the worst in him. Though the memories had been long buried, he'd always hated Tosso-posh and Belrigger for their abuses. He'd hated the merchant whose lecherous ways had driven him to murder.

But Memnon had given him new people to hate. He hated the priest who sired him. He'd hated him enough to kill him.

Then he thought of Shanali and his thoughts were a mix of pity, regret, anger, and love. He pitied her weakness, her gullibility. He regretted her loss.

But he'd discovered a newfound anger at her as well. She'd sold him. She'd sold him to a pedophile to save her own life. All the years she'd protected him from Belrigger and Tosso. All the times she'd fed him and starved herself. All the gentleness she'd somehow managed to hold onto for him despite the unloving world she lived in. All these were ultimately worthless in the face of what she'd done.

Wouldn't it have been better to have died than to have sold her only child into that kind of slavery? Wouldn't it have been better for her to have killed him herself?

She had to have known what the merchant was. Even as a boy Entreri had known in an instant he wasn't safe with the old man. Shanali was a grown woman. Shouldn't she have known too?

Or was she so blinded by the promises of the priests for healing that she wouldn't see?

But knowing her failure, knowing her weakness, Entreri still loved her. He still missed her even though time had dulled his memories to the point that he couldn't see her face, couldn't hear her voice.

He still missed her gentleness. He missed the security of knowing he mattered to someone.

He thought of Calihye then. In a moment of weakness he'd given her a piece of himself he'd never relinquished before. And she'd tried to kill him. He wondered where she was, then thought better of it.

The open flames danced before his unseeing eyes as the memories roiled in his brain like snakes.

Then he got up and went to Dwahvel's liquor cabinet. Another glass of port seemed like a very good idea after all.

_(AN: Yes, I know he's weak and depressed. He ought to be.)_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Dwahvel came back upstairs during the night to check on her guest, only to find him sound asleep on the floor by the fire, an empty bottle of port beside him.

That was very unlike the Entreri she knew. One drink was more than enough for the man who preferred to keep his head clear in perfect readiness for any contingency. The fire had burned low and the room was a bit on the cool side. She rebuilt the blaze, then after seeing that Entreri wasn't armed—more alarm bells went off in her head—she carefully covered him with a blanket.

He didn't stir.

He dreamed.

Entreri stood in Jarlaxle's Castle D'Aerthe, the great buffoon Olwen's neck under the point of his dagger. All the man's bluster had evaporated with only the tiniest draw on the very stuff of his life. Entreri now had the upper hand, though surrounded by enemies. He was going to get out alive after all.

Then he saw him.

Thin, ragged as any urchin of Memnon, practically oozing devotion.

Grandmaster Kane.

He knew he was dreaming then. Knew he was simply remembering, but nothing could quell the repulsion he felt as Kane's power entered his body. He could feel the touch of the Quivering Palm manipulating his spirit with a sick pull.

He remembered the pain Kane had unleashed in him, but the pain was nothing to the sense of helplessness he felt against the intimacy of that touch inside him. Then it was no longer Kane but another thin, ragged man whose touch he was powerless to stop. Tosso's touch blended with the monk's until the violation of his flesh and his spirit was one and the same.

He sat up with a cry of fury, fighting off the blanket that enveloped him, rising to his feet so swiftly that Dwahvel couldn't help but gasp in surprise.

His eyes were wide open and wild, but he wasn't looking at her. He trembled uncontrollably and pulled at his hair and clothes as if trying remove some clinging beast from his skin.

"No no no no," he repeated savagely. "You're dead. I killed you myself." Then he roared, "Get away from me!" and dropped to his knees, his breath coming in heaves.

After a few moments, he finally looked up at her, his eyes red rimmed. "I killed him, Dwahvel," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Why isn't he dead? How can he still be alive in my head when I killed him?"

"I don't know, Artemis," she replied, not really knowing what to say to him.

After a few minutes, he lay back down and slept again.

She watched him for as long as she could, then she returned to her business downstairs, her mind whirling with questions—and with concern.

When she came back upstairs at the end of the night, he still lay on the floor before her fireplace. When she came closer, he stirred a little and looked up at her. So she passed him a pillow from the couch. He took it from her hand and pulled it beneath his head.

She took a seat in her easychair. He grew still and quiet and she thought he'd gone back to sleep, then realized his eyes were open watching the flicker of the firelight.

"I'm not anything I ever thought I was," he said quietly after a while. "Nothing I ever wanted was what I needed."

"It never is," Dwahvel responded. "We just do the best we can."

"Why?" he asked. "What's the point in it?"

"I do my best for the guild," she answered. "I try to leave something behind me that's better than I got."

"What good does that do you?" He sounded more curious than argumentative.

"I care about them," she replied with a shrug. "They're my people."

"I don't have people."

She had no response. To make that kind of admission, he had to be drunker than she realized. Or even more deranged.

She considered anew why she was taking the risk of helping him.

Was Entreri one of her people?

No.

Was he her friend?

Yes, insofar as a human man in his position and a halfling woman in her position could be friends in the political atmosphere of Calimport. She'd offer him a safe haven for a while, provided he didn't bring danger to her guild. She owed him that.

But safe haven didn't seem to be all he was after.

She didn't wish to anger him. She genuinely liked him.

She genuinely feared him as well.

And somewhere inside she felt a stranger emotion—a tenderness toward him. She'd never dreamed that Artemis Entreri would ever inspire tenderness.

His eyes were closed now and he seemed to be sleeping. So she quietly went to bed as well.

But Entreri wasn't asleep. He was merely trying to stay sane.

Alcohol couldn't stem the tide of memories that flooded his mind, moments he'd thought long forgotten—or long denied.

Not all of them were bad. He remembered a sunrise viewed from the deck of a ship. He remembered how it felt to be rocked to sleep by the motion of the waves.

But those were very few in comparison. Images of the dead and the dying seemed to predominate.

And the emotions that went with the memories were as raw and fresh as if it were happening just then. Anger, greed, longing, fear, but never joy. Never happiness. Never peace.

A momentary flicker of contentment passed over him as he remembered Calihye. He could feel her body soft against him, could feel pleasure explode through his system, then the relaxation that came from being with someone he trusted, someone he loved. Unguarded, he opened his eyes and could see the dagger in her hand.

From the moment he'd understood that she meant to kill him—that she didn't care about him—from that very moment, he'd begun to wall himself off from the pain. The walls had gone up so quickly in his heart that he could almost deny that he'd ever cared about her at all.

But now that wall was gone. Nothing was there to hold back the hurt, the betrayal, the humiliation.

All the walls were gone. He had nothing to stand between him and his failures, his disappointments, his regrets, his past, his life.

He banished them as quickly as they arose, but the specters of the past were innumerable.

How? He'd broken the flute and thrown it at Jarlaxle's feet. How could it be that instead of fading away again, the past just kept pushing itself into his consciousness, forcing him to remember, to feel?

There in the dark, he clung to reality by clinging to the empty bottle, taking comfort in its cold, glassy solidity.

And by anchoring himself firmly in the present, he somehow managed to sleep.

With morning came a headache and unrelenting nausea. Then Entreri realized with dismay that he'd spent the night on Dwahvel's floor.

His mood had been very dark, that much he did recall. And by the light of day and in the misery of a hangover, it was no less dark. He was no closer to making peace with himself than he'd been in the darkest watches of the night.

At any other time in his life, he'd go out looking for trouble under these circumstances. He'd take a dangerous job just to fill his life with peril rather than thought. With enough peril and violence, the thoughts would somehow fade away again, leaving him alone for a while.

But he couldn't very well go out looking for trouble today. To do so would mean leaving The Copper Ante behind. It would be too dangerous for Dwahvel and her people for him to be associated openly with them.

In fact, the way rumors tended to travel in Calimport, they'd be better off if he left them now rather than wait for some enemy to catch wind of his presence there. Images of his dream of the destruction of the guild flashed before him. He couldn't let that happen.

But he didn't want to leave either—not yet. He'd told Jarlaxle he was going home to Calimport, but he'd known then that Calimport was no more his home than Memnon or Menzoberranzan.

Home was here inside this building.

Dwahvel wouldn't reject him without reason. She wouldn't sell him to his enemies to protect herself. While he was in her guildhouse, she'd protect him from threats both inside and outside to the best of her ability. She had his best interest at heart. He could lower his guard without fear of her taking advantage of his vulnerability to strike at him.

To stay sane, he had to believe this. He had to believe in her.

Across the room, he heard her stir in her bed. Then she sat up and looked at him, her hair tumbling recklessly over her shoulders. "Good thing I buy soft carpeting," she commented with a yawn. "Want some breakfast?"

So they ate together. Dwahvel had a wonderful little potion for hangover that she was gracious enough to share, so he actually managed to keep his food down.

Afterward, she had plenty of work to do and he had nothing to do. He'd already determined that the fewer people who knew of his presence there the better, so he didn't want to wander the halls. That put him in his room, Dwahvel's office, or her room. There wasn't room to train in his room, and she was using her office, so he commandeered her room, pushing aside the dainty furniture to give him area to work.

He didn't have space enough for swordwork, so he contented himself with strength and agility exercises. Then he wondered cynically what was the point.

Could he work as a mercenary again? He remembered Jarlaxle's question—how many who received death at his blade deserved better?

He tried to tell himself that the foes he'd most recently vanquished had been monsters. But if orcs were monsters, what of the half-orcs of Palishchuk? Certainly they were not monsters.

Who was he to judge these creatures he didn't know?

On the other hand, a lich and dracolich were certainly monsters, as was the hypocritical priest of Selune whose life he'd ended. Those he had no qualms about.

If he only killed abominations such as these, would that make him some kind of paladin? The thought made him ill. He was becoming as principled as that miserable drow, Do'Urden. Perhaps he should go ahead and apply at Spirit Soaring as a postulant, he mocked himself.

In the midst of his dark ravings and punishing workout, Dwahvel entered the room. Blood stained the front of her dress. Entreri's heart dropped and he ran to her.

"Are you hurt?" he asked with real concern, kneeling down to get a better look at her.

"No, no, I'm not hurt," she answered curtly. "But the idiot who tried to hit on me is. Sammidge broke his nose pretty badly and I got caught in the overflow."

Entreri had his hands on her waist to hold her still while he made sure she was not injured. When he didn't let go of her, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes, then repeated, "I'm not hurt, Artemis. You can let go of me."

It was still very hard for him to turn her loose. It was even harder for him to leave the room while she cleaned up and changed. Visions of the house destroyed, Dwahvel dead in a pool of blood, kept running through his mind.

He knew they were nothing more than dreams—his fears run rampant. But he was powerless to stop them.

Once not too many years ago, he wouldn't have feared for her at all. Either she would have been of use to him and worth preserving, or she wouldn't be of use and could take care of herself. No loyalty, no worry, no obligations.

Now he needed her for reasons he couldn't name.

Now he'd risk anything to be sure she was safe.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When she came out of her room a while later, she met him in the hallway, cleaned up and wearing fresh clothes at last. He'd shaved and dressed in an understated but elegant way in dark red trousers and black vest and jacket. His dagger hung at his side, its jewels catching the lamplight, but his red sword was not on his person. His hair had been pulled back smoothly into a black ribbon.

"What are you up to, Entreri?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to keep an eye on things tonight," he declared. "But discreetly. No one will ever know I'm there."

"So you're turning bouncer?" she teased, then took his arm to descend the stairs.

He looked down at her quizzically for a second then laughed aloud. "I suppose I am," he replied.

The sound of a laugh from Artemis Entreri was almost enough to stop her in her tracks. Then he looked at her again and smiled. Then she did stop. He had a lovely smile. What kind of games were the gods playing with her to bring a smiling Artemis Entreri into her life?

He took another couple of steps downstairs, then turned back to her again, at near eye level with her. He graciously offered his hand and she took it as he assisted her down the stairs. He was now a gentleman as well, she thought. Would wonders never cease?

True to his word, few there that evening were aware that Entreri was anywhere near The Copper Ante. Unruly customers only got a sensation of movement before finding themselves abruptly sitting on the front doorstep.

And none of them got enough look at the mysterious bouncer to be able to identify him. Not even Dwahvel could find him in the shadows unless he wanted to be seen. She wondered what charm he was using—some drow artifact perhaps? Or was it merely his consummate assassin's skill?

Customers came and went. Business was conducted in various back rooms. A couple of times, Dwahvel felt a hand at her shoulder when things got dicey in the bar. Once, she could have sworn she felt someone touching her hair. But when she turned, no one was there. Only shadows.

All the same, she couldn't help but feel a bit safer knowing that the most deadly man in Calimshan was watching over her.

But why?

What did it profit Artemis Entreri to concern himself with the safety of the mistress of a guild as insignificant as this one? If he were positioning himself to return to power in Calimport, why forge this alliance? What influence did she have that would benefit him?

Sometime just after midnight, she went upstairs for a few moments to review some information on a current project in her office. As she walked to her desk, she was unaware that she'd been followed.

So it was with surprise that she saw him standing in the darkness beside the window, carefully peering out between the heavy silk draperies down into the courtyard. The dim light of the lamps in the gardens illuminated his face with a soft glow.

She knew Artemis Entreri was not considered to be a handsome man. His perpetual scowl and the ever present threat in his eyes kept most from ever truly seeing his face.

But now, in watchful repose, the hard lines had smoothed and she could see the symmetry of his features. A classical refinement lay in his face, like the statues of the ancients of Calimshan that lined the streets of the capital.

His lean form radiated a sort of sharp elegance, of dark mystery as he stood there before the window, scanning for danger as always. His body was like a coiled spring, every potential held tightly in reserve, patiently waiting for the moment of action. He was perfectly formed, perfectly balanced, poised like a dancer, but one whose dance was death.

She knew that Artemis Entreri was not handsome.

He was beautiful.

Beautiful in a fierce and terrible way—like the blade of a sword.

Then without warning he flowed through the window with a speed and grace that took her breath.

Unaware of Dwahvel's observation, Entreri had watched through the curtains as various halfling couples found dark, secluded nooks in the courtyard's gardens. Some spent moments in conversation, then headed back to the brothel or the inn rooms. Some spent moments in conversation, then headed back to the bar or the guildhouse. No one was alone.

Halflings were socially gregarious creatures. They needed companionship to be happy. In the many years he'd tracked the thief Regis for Pasha Pook, he'd discovered one helpful piece of information about him. Whenever Entreri lost his trail, all he had to do was find a tavern and begin to ask about a halfling with good stories to tell. Even knowing he was being tracked across Faerun, the little thief could never go without company for long.

Entreri had despised that quality in him, even as he turned it to his advantage. Entreri had never needed company.

Once his questioning of the tavern's patrons was complete, he did not pause to have an ale and warm himself by the fire. Rooms full of people translated as rooms full of targets, or full of threats. Conversation with a stranger was an open invitation to ambush.

He didn't like conversations. He didn't like crowds. He certainly didn't like the kind of crowds that were gathered downstairs in the bar with their casual contact and disregard of personal space. Halflings were always touching each other. Entreri did not like to be touched.

Memnon washed over him as he stood in the window. Belrigger's casual slaps and even his hard, closed-fisted blows were understandable to him. Unwelcome and resented, but understandable and therefore acceptable. Perhaps that was why Belrigger still lived.

Then he saw Tosso-posh's dead body lying on the floor of the hovel. His touches had not been acceptable. Flashes of sense memory ran through Entreri so strongly he could feel the rough fingers on his skin. His chest tightened and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Outside, a customer began to get a little overly insistent with one of the girls. Before he knew it, Entreri had thrown open the window and leaped lightly from the balcony to the carefully manicured grass below.

The drunken halfling's hand was well up the girl's skirt and she was protesting vigorously. Entreri had him up against a wall in a heartbeat, the vampiric dagger at the hollow of his throat, one little ruby drop of blood welling onto the tip of the blade. The halfling went deathly pale and froze in terror.

"Make him pay me for last time," the girl was saying in a businesslike tone as she straightened her skirts. Then she addressed the petrified halfling. "I told you already, Bando, no freebies."

At her words, the red haze in Entreri's brain cleared. He let the halfling go and was halfway back to the door before Bando had sunk all the way to the ground.

"Come on!" the girl called to Entreri. "Make him pay me for last time!"

Entreri's mind swirled with conflicting images of the defenseless and the indefensible. No justification, no order. He stood in a whirlwind, a maelstrom of evil with himself at the center. And this was his world, the world he'd chosen, the world he'd created.

Dwahvel met him at the door. "What's going on?" she asked.

Entreri gave her a look as cold and as piercing as any she'd ever seen from him before. Ice settled in her veins. Ice and fear.

She did not see him downstairs again that night. Sammidge handled the rough customers, but word spread quickly of the confrontation in the courtyard between Bando and a ghost. The girl was pleased because Bando immediately paid her for last time, then left. But the mood grew a bit more subdued in the place and much of the crowd turned in earlier than usual.

Therefore it was still hours before dawn when Dwahvel made her way back upstairs to her rooms. After the look he'd given her downstairs, the last person she expected to see was Artemis Entreri.

Nevertheless when she opened her door, she was surprised to see him there by the fire, stretched out as much as possible on her little sofa. His black jacket lay tossed casually across her bed. She wondered if he'd been drinking again, but saw no sign of bottle or glass.

He sat there by the fire, turning his dagger over and over in his fingers, the firelight glinting from the blade.

"Does it destroy souls utterly?" he asked aloud as she closed the door behind her. "Or does it trap them inside it? I've never been completely certain."

His voice sounded odd to her as he continued, "If it totally destroys the soul—into nothingness—then yes."

"But if it just consumes the soul," his voice trailed off as he tapped the hilt lightly with one finger, "I have too many truly bitter enemies in here to want to be stuck with them forever." He half looked back at her, then turned to the fire again.

"I've asked it, but it won't give me a straight answer," Entreri commented, and his voice sounded distant, distracted.

The room was quiet and dark, illumined only by the flicker of firelight. Then he turned to face Dwahvel fully, his face half in shadow, half in light. "Come here," he ordered. "You ask."

She walked tentatively toward him, unsure of what he wanted from her. She stayed out of arm's reach of him as she responded, "Who do you want me to talk to, Artemis?"

He rolled off the sofa in a move as agile as a panther and knelt at her feet, sinking back onto his heels so that he actually looked up at her. Then he pressed the hilt of the large dagger into her palm, wrapping her hand in his. "Ask it," he repeated. "Ask it what happens to the souls it consumes."

Dwahvel heard a whispering in her head from the dagger, a malevolent voice speaking to her, demanding to be fed. She tried to let go of it, but Entreri's hands held hers tightly, pressing her fingers into the hilt of the blade.

"Ask it," he insisted. Then he pressed the tip into his own throat, bringing blood. "If it will destroy me utterly, tell it to drink."

The dagger tasted blood and life. She could feel the presence inside it instructing her, whispering the word of command that would allow it to drink Entreri's lifeforce, to drain him utterly, to take his very soul.

She realized what her friend was asking her to do. He wanted more than death. He wanted annihilation.

"No," she whispered, her throat suddenly raw with horror. "No, please, Artemis, please let me go."

She struggled against his grip but was powerless to break it. He pressed the tip even deeper into his skin.

"Do this for me," he commanded, his voice cold and frightening.

She could feel hot tears begin to stream down her face. "Please, Artemis," she begged but his hands were a steel vise, trapping her in his nightmare.

Then she looked into his eyes.

And behind the icy glare, behind the threat, he was so full of pain, so lost. She forced herself to breathe and stop fighting him. With her free hand, she smoothed back the hair that had escaped from its ribbon. She placed her hand on his cheek and looked deep into him, right into his misery.

"Give it to me," she commanded in a voice accustomed to instant obedience from her people. "Give me the dagger, Artemis." The darkness in his eyes was deep and impenetrable, but she held her ground. Then to her surprise, he let the dagger go.

The weight of it sank into her hand, and without hesitation, she carried the evil weapon into her adjoining office and locked it away in a small chest on her desk.

Then she walked back into her bedroom. Entreri hadn't moved by the fire. She went to her dressing table, picked up a small handkerchief, and went to him intent on stanching the trickle of blood that ran from the cut on his neck.

But when she reached out to him, he caught her wrist in his hand, holding it lightly away from him. He would not meet her eyes again.

"Let me help you," she said softly. Then she stepped closer and he let go of her hand. She dabbed away the blood, then tentatively she put her hands on his shoulders. When he didn't pull away, she placed her arms around him and leaned her cheek against his hair.

After a long moment, his arms went around her as well, lightly at first, as if he wasn't sure what to do. Then as the fire crackled behind them, he tightened his hold, clinging to her as if she were a lifeline tossed to him in the middle of a stormy sea.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Dwahvel sat on the sofa and gazed into the fire. The sun would be up soon. It had been a long night, but she couldn't find it in her to sleep.

She glanced over at her bed, huge by halfling standards, and able to hold a being as tall as her guest without trouble. He lay there asleep at last, sprawled face down across it. At least this time he'd removed his boots and belt.

In all the years she'd known Artemis, many had said he had no heart. Once she would have believed it herself. He'd carefully presented the world with a soulless killing machine, untouchable, incorruptible, merciless.

But when he sought refuge with her before, she could tell something had changed. She'd glimpsed a side of him she'd never seen, a side perhaps no one had ever seen. She'd kept his letter as one of her most prized possessions—proof positive that Artemis Entreri was a man, not a monster.

But with this visit, he'd not only changed, he'd begun to disintegrate.

"Why?" she'd asked. "Why is this happening to you?"

Artemis had not said much, but he had told her enough.

Idalia's Flute. "The key to unlock any heart," she murmured to herself. Music loving halflings were not unfamiliar with this particular type of magical object, and from the sound of it, this one could be a useful tool for someone with an issue to work out.

But surely a being with Jarlaxle's experience would have realized that Artemis Entreri didn't have an issue to work out. His issues were legion, and all locked tightly away in a heart so secured by years of carefully built walls and traps that the best thief in Calimshan would be hard pressed to open half of them.

And Idalia's Flute had basically blown it open, setting his issues free like demons on the material plane.

In a good man's life there were memories enough of bad experiences and evil acts to plunge a person into despair should he be forced to relive them all.

In Artemis Entreri's case, who knew what hells he'd traveled, what demons he'd met, what depths he'd sunk into that would have made him the hard, carefully guarded person she'd known. To set all these things loose again in his life was worse than irresponsible, she thought furiously.

Damn that meddling elf! She wished she had Jarlaxle's throat in her hands. Then with a note of true vindictiveness, she imagined having that evil blade Artemis carried at his throat instead.

As if it were aware that she was thinking of it, she could hear the dagger call to her from the locked chest in her office. It took some mental effort to cut off its insidious whispers again, even at that distance. She wondered at the strength of will necessary to bear an item like that.

Then with a furtive glance behind her, as if she could see through the walls of the guildhouse into his room, she considered that Charon's Claw waited for him.

Artemis had warned her most sternly never to touch that sword. She shuddered as she recalled the stories she'd heard of the demise of its previous owner. But Artemis could touch it with his bare hands.

What kind of person was able to master a sword of this power, this destructiveness? If it sensed weakness in him, uncertainty of purpose, would it destroy him instead of serve him?

Dwahvel grew cold with fear. Would he seek out that destruction as he had with the dagger?

She got up and walked over to the bed where he lay. Who was this man?

Gently, she smoothed back a lock of dark hair that had fallen across his cheek. He shifted a little in his sleep but didn't awaken, didn't attack her.

Who was this man?

It was certainly not the Artemis Entreri she knew.

As Entreri slept, her touch had sparked another dream memory—one locked away even more deeply within him than his memories of Tosso-posh.

He remembered his mother. She'd loved him once, before she betrayed him. She'd held him and sang to him. She'd rocked him to sleep with the gentle motion of a ship at sea.

He could feel her hand against his cheek, soft and gentle. He needed that. He wanted it desperately. He longed to feel it again so badly it hurt.

But the need made him weak, so he'd denied it. He'd buried that awful liability as far from his conscious mind as he possibly could. Mercy, compassion, even justice were too much like love for him to allow them any rein in his life.

To survive, to remain untouched, he had to banish every desire that made him weak. He had to be strong, or he would become a victim.

He would not be a victim.

But he could feel his mother's fingers in his hair. She'd loved him. Before she betrayed him.

He could feel Calihye's fingers in his hair. She'd also loved him.

Before she betrayed him.

And the worst humiliation of all was that he still wanted it. He wanted it like a child, like a man in the desert wants water.

He still wanted to be loved.

And that made him weak.

With a resigned sigh, he sank deeper into sleep, a sleep without hope, without dreams.

Late the next day, Entreri woke up realizing that he had discovered the secret to a sound night's sleep--quit caring if you ever wake up.

For a life defined by self-preservation, becoming suicidal had its benefits, its little epiphanies, its freedoms.

One such freedom was the ability to get up and go downstairs without bothering to strap on his dagger or sword. If any of the halflings in the building wanted to take him out, they were welcome to give it their best shot. He might even help them do it.

Knowing that he didn't care at all about preserving his life made it all the easier to enjoy his breakfast, which he took downstairs in the kitchens. Apparently, visitors of his stature never bothered finding the kitchens. Thought not very tall for a human, he still had to duck a little to enter the room and all the tables, chairs, and various accoutrements were of halfling size.

One of the talented cooks did find him a human-sized plate however and served up human-sized portions of eggs, bacon, toasted bread, jam, and cake. As he ate, he wondered how Dwahvel kept her figure as trim as she did considering the way halflings liked their food—heavy, sweet, and greasy.

An image of his old friend Dondon came to mind. He remembered him the way he'd last seen him—fat and miserable, a house prisoner with all the comforts of the guild but no life outside it. Suddenly Entreri lost his desire for any more breakfast and pushed his half-eaten plate away.

He truly no longer cared whether he lived or died. But he did care about Dwahvel.

He would not endanger her by staying openly at the guildhouse, nor burden her by hiding away there any longer.

It was time to make a break from this life.

He was dressed for travel and waiting for her when she returned from a business outing. "I need my dagger," he explained as she came in the door. "Do you want to unlock this thing or should I just break into it?"

He could see a worried look in her eyes as she retrieved the key from its hiding place then turned to the small innocuous wooden chest on her desk bearing a single visible lock.

Entreri courteously turned away as she deftly disabled the traps and unlocked the many invisible locks as well, even though he'd seen enough in a cursory examination of it to already know how to open the majority of them. Still, it would be extremely rude to watch.

A muffled click and the squeak of old hinges let him know it was open. Dwahvel stood beside the desk, but carefully to one side as if to distance herself from the contents.

A few steps brought him to the desk and he looked inside. The dagger lay there, the only item in the red velvet lined tray that rested in the upper section of the chest. It glinted at him, its jewels like eyes blinking in the shifting sunlight that filtered through the windows.

He heard its voice as it chastised him. It belonged in his hand, not locked away. It was to be borne and seen, not hidden.

Then for the first time in a very long time, he really looked at the weapon he'd carried for so many years. As he gazed at it, the sunlight in the room began to fade into darkness until all he could see was the dagger sparkling before him.

He admired the beauty of the blade, the silvery edge that so easily drew a line between life and death.

He admired its blinking jewels, its intricately wrapped hilt, worn shiny in places by the grip of his fingers.

It began to admonish him in a soft voice. He'd begun to take it for granted. He'd failed to appreciate its beauty, its deadliness--its thirst. He would not make that mistake again.

Then it spoke to him again in a lover's voice, silky and persuasive. It knew Entreri's desires. It knew what he wanted. It wanted what he wanted.

It wanted him.

It could still taste him in the tiny smear of dried blood at its tip.

Entreri listened to its voice as if for the first time. Blood pounded in his ears, racing through his body until his skin tingled. His breath quickened.

It wanted to drink deep of him, to take his life into itself until his soul was consumed as well. The dagger would be the bearer then--it would bear him into oblivion.

"Yes," he whispered and reached for it, already giving the command in his mind.

Then the lid of the chest slammed shut, nearly catching his fingers. Dwahvel pushed at him with all her might and interposed herself between him and the dagger.

"I will not let that thing have you," she declared firmly, her eyes flashing.

Brusquely he grabbed her by the arm and moved her aside. Then he pulled at the lid, only to receive a magical discharge into his fingertips that set him back a step. His eyes burned as he glared at her. Then through his anger he realized that she could hear the dagger's offer.

"How did you know?" he asked hoarsely. "How did you know what it wanted?"

"Last night you made me its wielder, remember?" she snapped angrily, rubbing at her arm where his fingers had gripped her too tightly. "Of course I can hear it."

Entreri shuddered. What had he done? The dagger renewed its call more vigorously, renewed its promise of sweet annihilation.

He went back across the office and through the door that led into her bedroom. He had to get far enough away from it to think again. He sat on the end of her bed and put his head in his hands, working to shut out a call he'd once been able to dismiss easily.

After a long moment, he'd managed to assert enough of his will against the weapon to quiet the voice inside him.

"Why did you stop me?" he asked at last. He sounded so weary.

Dwahvel went to him then and stood before him. He wouldn't meet her eyes. Damn Jarlaxle, she thought. Damn him to the Abyss.

"Artemis, I don't know what long buried demons have been set free inside your head. I don't know what you've done or where you've been," she began. "But I do know that you are not those things. You are not the things that have happened to you or the things you've done. Artemis Entreri is more than a collection of events and actions."

He looked up at her, his dark eyes shining. "What am I then, Dwahvel?" he asked in a rough whisper.

"You are the consciousness that rises above these things. You are the mind that makes sense of it all," she replied in a firm but gentle voice.

"I don't want to make sense of it," he declared. "I want to be rid of it."

Dwahvel put her hand on his shoulder. "That's a start," she offered. "Get rid of it by dealing with it. Acknowledge it, learn from it, then put it away again."

"How?" He'd closed his eyes.

Was he that cut off from himself? she wondered.

Then she answered her own question. Yes, he'd likely spent the last forty years denying any thought, any feeling, any event that didn't fit into the narrow parameters that he'd created to define Artemis Entreri.

"Start by telling me about it," she said gently.

"Tell you about what?"

Dwahvel thought for a moment. Where to begin? He'd already dropped a few hints about how badly he'd hated the city of the drow. Perhaps that would be a good place to start.

She boldly took his hand and led him back to her little sofa to sit beside her.

"Tell me about Menzoberranzan, Artemis," she began in a leading voice.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Over the next hour, Dwahvel learned some very disturbing new information about drow elf society. For her part, she rather liked the idea of having absolute power over all the males in her surroundings for a change.

But she realized that for man like Artemis Entreri, being subservient to everyone he met had been intensely irritating, and for some reason being forced into complete obedience to the females had been especially galling.

She could hear the anger and frustration in his voice as he told her how it had felt to be nothing special in the company of the dark elves. "I had trained with the blade for well over twenty years, Dwahvel. I was at the peak of my abilities. And those damned elves had been training for over one hundred and twenty years. Every one of them was my equal, if not my better," he admitted bitterly.

"I was trapped," he sighed. "There was no way for me to fight my way up in their world. I was only going to get slower and weaker as they got faster and stronger. And even if I had become the greatest fighter in all of Menzoberranzan, I was still just an insignificant male in the eyes of all those red-eyed bitches of Lolth."

"Now you know how it feels to be a Calishite woman," Dwahvel observed. "Nothing more than property, no matter her intelligence or her abilities."

Entreri was silent. She hoped he was considering her words.

Then he looked at her and said, "You are no man's property, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies."

"Of course not," she replied easily. "I'm no Calishite. I'm a halfling and halflings know better than that."

"I hope I know better than that as well," he offered gallantly.

Dwahvel smiled. Perhaps his encounter with Idalia's Flute was doing him some good after all.

A knock at her door disturbed their conversation as she was called downstairs to tend to some business. One of the members of her informant network had heard rumors that Artemis Entreri had returned to Calimport and was staying at their guild house.

"Who's saying this?" Dwahvel asked him.

The halfling rattled off too many house names for comfort. Entreri had better decide how he wished to proceed and quickly. If he planned to return to action in Calimport, they needed to be laying the proper groundwork—which would take all her skill and diplomacy. If he planned to leave, he needed to do it soon and with enough fanfare that the guilds knew he was well and truly gone.

She went back upstairs, deep in thought. "Artemis," she began as she entered her room. But he wasn't there.

She walked out into the hallway to meet him coming toward her, a long bundle in his hands. "I was listening," he offered by way of explanation and walked into her office to place the bundle on a far side table. He pulled back the cloth that covered it to reveal the red blade and bony hilt of Charon's Claw.

"I'm leaving this and the dagger," he stated evenly. "Sell them to the highest bidder. Tell the world that you poisoned me. No one will need a body with the blades as evidence."

Then he dropped to one knee to look seriously into her face. "But whatever you do, Dwahvel, do not touch that sword with your bare hands."

He shivered a little inwardly as he said it. For the first time since he'd mastered Charon's Claw, he'd avoided touching it himself as he'd wrapped it up in a length of bedlinen to bring it to her. It galled him deeply to think he wasn't mentally up to the challenge.

"Where will you go?" she asked him.

"I don't know."

"You can't leave in the middle of the day. Someone might see you," she observed. She realized she would say anything to delay his departure. She was not ready for him to go. He was not ready to leave.

"Tonight then."

Dwahvel wracked her brain to come up with a plan to keep him from leaving. She offered him other weapons, but he wouldn't take them. She offered to get him passage on a ship leaving on the next tide, but he wasn't interested.

"What then?" she asked. "Where are you going?"

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "The important thing is that I will be gone and you will be safe here."

He was going to do something stupid. She knew it. Knowing his current deathwish, she would not be surprised if he just walked out the door and waited for some eager young assassin to take him down—even unarmed, killing Artemis Entreri would be a tremendous feather in someone's cap.

She simply could not let him throw his life away.

Then she wondered why not. Why did she care so much about what happened to him? It wasn't as if she owed him anything. His death would mean that her life could go on as usual.

But at a price she couldn't imagine paying.

"Then tell me the rest of it," she demanded. "If you are so determined to leave me, then at least tell me who you are before you go."

Inwardly he shrugged. It might be easier to walk out the door to meet fate knowing that one person knew him, really knew him. And he wanted Dwahvel to know him.

So he talked. He began in Memnon with Shanali and Belrigger. He even told her about Tosso. He laid bare the story of his conception and of his mother's sickness.

In telling of how he'd sought vengeance for her by killing that damnable priest, he expected to feel some justification, some resolution. He added that he'd also ended Tosso-posh's career as well, and realized he still felt empty inside. Killing Tosso had not healed him. Killing Principal Yinochek had not brought his mother back, had not made him any less repelled by the blood in his veins.

He went on to tell of the merchant Shanali had sold him to—of the man's perversities, of his own helplessness. He'd slain the merchant as soon as he'd gotten the opportunity.

It had been his first kill. But instead of landing him in prison, it had given him a career path.

From then on, he killed people. Some needed it, some didn't. Some he killed because if he didn't, someone else would.

He became very good at killing people. He worked very hard to become so. No one would ever find him helpless again. He would not be anyone's victim ever again.

Then he told her of Drizzt Do'Urden. How it had disturbed him to realize there was someone in the world who was perhaps better than he. Someone who didn't have to work at it constantly. Someone who could enjoy the company of his companions without wondering which one of them was plotting to take him by surprise in order to gain prestige with the pashas.

In all his life, friends were the one luxury Entreri never had enough money to afford. He could buy women when he couldn't go any longer without release. He could buy whatever food or drink or narcotic his heart desired. He could buy magic items and treasures to fill storerooms. But no amount of money could guarantee that a friend one day wasn't an enemy the next.

He'd killed Do'Urden as well.

But he'd never defeated him.

Then he told her of Jarlaxle. His friend?

It was hard to tell. Jarlaxle's motives for friendship were never without direct benefit for Jarlaxle. He'd learned that fact early in their relationship during the ill-fated attempt to invade the dwarven stronghold.

Certainly Jarlaxle had taken him in, had protected him in Menzoberranzan, had made him a place there of a sort, but Entreri knew that all these things were done because it amused Jarlaxle to do them. And though at times Jarlaxle went out of his way to be kind, self-preservation had frequently trumped friendship. And manipulation was almost always the rule of the day.

Dwahvel again wished she had a way to take some sort of revenge on that bald troublemaker. Then she listened as he continued.

His voice grew quieter once he began telling of Damara and Vaasa. She began to read between the lines a little at his descriptions of Arrayan and Calihye, and she understood that Artemis Entreri had fallen in love with them. He actually admitted that he and Calihye had become lovers for a while.

"How did it end?" she asked curiously.

"She tried to kill me," he replied lightly, but he couldn't hide the undercurrent of hurt in his voice or the way he looked away when he spoke the words.

"That was extremely stupid of her," Dwahvel observed coolly, doing her best to hide her fury. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I don't think I killed her. But I couldn't find her body."

"Then she's probably not dead," Dwahvel assured him. "But she was extremely stupid. I have no sympathy for her at all."

"I wish it hadn't happened the way it did," Entreri admitted, looking back at her again. "I had to leave Damara and I just wanted her to come with me."

Inwardly Dwahvel cursed the bitch. And Jarlaxle once again for ripping holes in Artemis' defenses with that damned flute.

"So what have you learned from all this, Artemis?" she asked gently.

"I don't know," he responded without hesitation. "Never trust an elf?"

"How about this—you aren't perfect, you aren't invulnerable, you need to be loved, love hurts," she offered.

He just sat there, silent beside her.

The day had worn on toward evening. Soon it would be dark and he would leave. She rose and made up the fire before them.

There was no way she was letting Artemis out of her house that night. He was in no condition to leave. And when it came down to it, she was in no condition to let him go.

So she sat beside him and pulled him down to rest his head in her lap. She moved carefully and deliberately. She didn't want to scare him, and she knew that the most dangerous man in Calimport was very vulnerable at that moment.

They watched the fire and she played with his hair, then she stroked his arm, then his cheek. She ran her fingertips lightly across his lips and he looked up at her in mild surprise. Then he sat up.

She didn't back down. Instead she knelt beside him and ran her fingertips across his temples and into his dark hair. Then she kissed him.

He didn't kiss her back, but he didn't pull away either. She took that as a good sign and kissed him again, more intently.

This time he did return the kiss and she knew she was on the right track. So she began to unbuckle the heavy leather vest he wore. He helped her pull it free. The buttons of his shirt gave way much more easily to her touch and before long it hung open so she could run her hands across the sharply defined muscles of his chest.

"What are you doing?" he asked her softly.

She moved into his lap to face him directly and pulled his head close to hers. She whispered into his ear, "You owe me this." Then she teased his earlobe with her tongue and was rewarded with a slight shiver.

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and ran her hands across his back. Little by little, she took back what that half-elf bitch had thrown away. Little by little, she rebuilt what that damned dark elf had nearly destroyed.

Soon she had all his clothes. She lay on the carpet beside him and watched him in the firelight. She traced lazy circles on his skin with her fingertips. She watched him breathe. Then when she judged the time was right, she pulled off her dress and tossed it to the side.

He ran his fingers lightly over the curves of her body, but froze when he saw purple bruises on her arm. He sat up and examined them more carefully. He'd done that to her.

"No," he said to her firmly. "I don't want to hurt you."

But Dwahvel pushed him back onto the carpet again with a kiss. "I'm not going to let you hurt me," she said sincerely. "And I promise I'm not going to hurt you either."

Entreri had been with many women. The women of the guildhouses over the years had worked very hard to please him anytime he singled them out for his bed.

But they'd never looked him in the eyes. The women kept their eyes closed--whether in ecstasy or in terror, he knew not which, nor did he care. And he never bothered to look at them. He took what he needed from them and dismissed them.

Now, his eyes drifted shut as he gave himself over to the waves of pleasure that rolled through him at the feel of her body around him. And for an instant he was back in Damara.

In Damara, he'd looked at his lover. He'd wanted to see her, to watch her, to know that she wanted to be with him.

But she too had kept her eyes closed, unwilling to share what lay inside them. His skin tingled, he could feel her body moving against him, pulling him closer to her. And he knew if he opened his eyes, he would see the blade descending.

With a little start of panic, he blinked. But there was no falling dagger.

There was only firelight.

And he looked at his lover. He needed to see her, to know that she wanted to be with him. Her eyes were not closed. They were open to him, dark in the firelight. He couldn't tell their color, but he could see her eyes.

In her eyes he saw tenderness. She gave without asking anything in return. Her eyes had no secrets. She looked into him unwaveringly, and he knew she was not afraid, she was not pretending.

Dwahvel was completely with him, holding no part of herself back, loving him with everything she was, he knew it. He could see it in the steady gaze of her eyes.

His skin tingled and his breath quickened as her body moved against him, pulling him closer. But there was no reason to be afraid.

The waves built and rolled until they finally broke inside him with a crash of surprising power. His breath left him with a cry he couldn't silence, and he lay beneath her unprotected and exposed, looking up at her face.

She was so beautiful.

And she loved him, he knew it.

He could see it in her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

During the night, they'd somehow made it to her bed. She lay with her head on his shoulder, one arm across his chest. He'd wound one of her curls around his finger and ran his thumb over it.

The night was still dark. He could still walk out her door.

He'd planned to leave her. He would leave her and let fate take care of him—likely at the end of some young upstart's blade or some young wizard's wand. He would leave her so she would be safe from him.

But he couldn't do that now. With her beside him he could get through this--he could be strong enough, whole enough to start over.

He looked down at her delicate features. She had been his friend. And now she was his lover.

He hadn't expected it, hadn't thought she could feel that way about him. She knew him too well to possibly love him. She knew what he'd done with his life in Calimport, she knew the people he'd killed. She knew what he really was. She knew his darkest secrets, his weaknesses, his fears.

And she still loved him.

How long had he cared about her? he wondered. He'd respected her, trusted her word, felt protective of her safety, felt safe in her house. But how long had he loved her?

He couldn't be sure, but he thought it might truly be years. He just hadn't known that what he'd felt for her was love.

He held her like a treasure. And for the first time in his life, he was glad he wasn't taller.

Outside the sun was beginning to rise. He could see the first rays of light coming over the rooftop. It was a new day. A new start. The old had passed away.

He'd always been such a creature of the night, using the darkness as cover for his actions. Now the coming of the day seemed to him the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The sunrise was a gift. It spoke to him of beginnings rather than endings.

He was not his past and he was more than the experiences of his life. He'd learned some things. He wasn't perfect. He wasn't invulnerable. He needed to be loved. Love didn't have to hurt. Either of them.

"Wake up," he whispered into Dwahvel's ear. "The sun's coming up."

She mumbled, "So?" then opened her eyes.

"It's a new day. Where do you want to go?"

"I didn't know we were going anywhere."

"We have to go somewhere," he replied. "How about Waterdeep? I've never spent enough time in Waterdeep to be easily recognized."

Dwahvel realized what Artemis was saying and sat up. "You want to run away together?" she asked in surprise. This was unexpected.

"I can't stay in Calimport. It's too dangerous for you. Come with me. Let one of your lieutenants take over the house," he explained.

The enormity of what he was saying crashed over her like a falling wall. Leave the guild? Leave Calimport? Leave her entire life, all she'd worked for? Just run away with him?

"That's a huge step, Artemis," she managed. "Give me a minute to think at least."

"You think. I've got business to take care of," he said. Then he gave her a slightly awkward kiss, got out of bed, and began to dress.

She got up and pulled a robe around her, then followed him into her office. He strapped on his sword belt, never even flinching as he touched the hilt of Charon's Claw. Then she watched in annoyance as he easily disabled the traps and locks on her chest, popping it open without even using the key to retrieve his dagger, placing it lightly into its sheath at his belt.

Then he gave her another light kiss and was out the door.

A hour or so later he returned. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"No, Artemis, I am not ready to go," she answered testily. "I told you I need time to think about this."

"You've got until noon. That's when our ship sails. Just pack what you'll need for the trip," he stated. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No."

"Then I'll send down to the kitchens for breakfast so you can get ready."

What had she done? Dwahvel wondered to herself as Artemis left the room. At least he wasn't suicidal any more, but what possibly made him think she was ready to leave her entire life behind to go adventuring with him?

For the first time she realized that when it came to having a real relationship, her Artemis was more than a little naive. In a man who prided himself on cynicism and pragmatism in his dealings, this streak of romanticism that apparently ran through him was seriously unexpected and a little disturbing.

Did he seriously think he could just sweep her off her feet and carry her away with him?

Then she considered that he was more than capable of doing just that. She wouldn't be the first halfling he'd kidnapped.

She wondered about the real nature of his mental state. He certainly wasn't thinking clearly, but was he truly irrational at this point or just being stupid about women?

When he returned from the kitchens, he immediately began pulling down maps from her shelf to spread them across her desk.

"Waterdeep doesn't have to be our destination," he offered as he pulled himself up a seat to study the maps. "We can use it as a jumping off point for anywhere we want to go in Faerun. Anywhere but Icewind Dale. Too cold."

She went over to stand by him, placing a hand on his arm. "Artemis," she began slowly, "why all the rush? Why today?"

He looked at her, concern in his eyes. "I know I'm putting you and the house in danger just by being here. I have to leave. And I won't leave you behind, Dwahvel. The last time I left someone behind, something terrible happened to her," he stated matter of factly. "I won't take that chance again. Either I'll live with you or I'll die defending you, but I won't leave you behind."

The sincerity in his voice struck her to the heart. A knock at the door signaled that breakfast had arrived and Artemis left his maps in order to eat with her.

Once they'd eaten--too quickly for Dwahvel's sensibilities, as a halfling she knew that food was meant to be savored--Artemis began to roll up several of her maps and other references and placed them in a neat pile on the end of her desk. "We'll take these with us," he explained.

No question. No polite request. Just a statement. Dwahvel sighed. Was there any way out of this? she wondered. Could she slow him down long enough to make him see reason?

Another knock at the door called her attention away from Artemis's packing. Sammige stood in the doorway. "Mistress," he began, "there's trouble on its way, I'm afraid."

"What kind of trouble?" Entreri asked from where he stood behind her.

"Some men from Pasha Basadoni's are coming. The advance message says they are coming for parley." Sammige continued to address Dwahvel, ignoring Entreri's presence in a way that would have once infuriated him.

At the moment, he chose to ignore it in favor of strategizing instead. He listened with a deep satisfaction and approval as Dwahvel asked all the questions he would have asked himself.

Once Sammige had left, he considered his information. It wasn't good. Groups that came to "meet" very frequently stayed to destroy. Good thing he already had their passage secured.

When he said as much, Dwahvel gave him a sharp look, sharper than he'd ever expected to see from her.

"I've already told you, Dwahvel," he began in what he felt was a reasonable tone of voice. "I am not staying here to bring the wrath of the guilds on your head. You are not staying behind. Pack and let Sammige deal with them when they come. Once they see I am not here, they will leave. Especially if he tells them that I have taken you with me as a hostage against the guild's cooperation for some elaborate scheme in Damara."

"You were banished from Damara on pain of death," she reminded him testily.

"In their eyes, all the more reason for me to go back and wreak havoc there," he concluded.

She had to admit it was logical.

"But you aren't really planning on wreaking havoc in Damara, are you?" she asked a little uncertainly.

Artemis went to her closet and began to pull out her clothing. "I wouldn't set foot in Damara again for 100,000 pieces of gold," he declared evenly. Then he looked back at her. "Do you really need to take all of this?"

Later, as she walked down the street toward the dock at his side, she tried to look suitably nervous and frightened as if she were really being kidnapped.

It wasn't hard to do.

She really was nervous and frightened. The last thing she'd intended to do was leave her entire life behind to placate an unbalanced Artemis Entreri. At that moment she seriously regretted sleeping with him.

He'd come in and turned her life upside down without even an apology. Instead he took over in that highhanded way of his, ordering her about and telling her people what to do. Even admitting that his orders were exactly what hers would have been didn't make up for the fact that she was beginning to feel seriously strong-armed.

The best she could hope for was that sooner or later, he'd come back to himself enough to let her go again.

In the meantime, she walked beside him, almost running to keep up. Soon she was exhausted. When she fell behind, he merely scooped her up in his arms and quickened his pace. His expression was hard and unreadable, but she could feel his heart pounding in his chest beneath her hand.

He took the gangplank of the merchant vessel Bonfire in long rapid strides, boarding just before the call was given to cast off. Within seconds, the ship pulled away with a crack of the sails.

She looked back toward the dock from her vantage point in his arms and saw Sammige running up to the edge of the quay, a group of men beside him.

Then she'd realized the hurry. Artemis had kept their pursuers just close enough to verify their departure, but not close enough to catch them. On the docks, the men had a conversation with Sammige, who just shook his head sadly.

She knew what he was telling them. No pursuit. It would be too dangerous for Mistress Tiggerwillies. He'd kill her before we got to them. Let us handle this. It's guild business and far away from Calimport.

As the ship pulled farther into the harbor and away from the docks, the sight of Sammige and Basadoni's men faded away behind her. Soon all of Calimport faded into the distance.

She looked up at Artemis, but could not read his expression. Without a word, he carried her to a stateroom below and placed her on the bed, tossing their bags of holding beside her.

"Stay here," he instructed, then left the room, closing the door behind him. A soft click against the frame informed her that he'd secured the door, probably with a magical alarm that only he would hear.

She sighed. She was miles at sea, cut off from everything she'd known, and completely at the mercy of the most deadly assassin in Faerun—who was in her opinion officially out of his mind.

She wished again that she'd never slept with him.

_(AN: Because I love you all, I'm just going to post the rest of this. That doesn't mean you can quit reviewing by chapter. I'd like to know your thoughts as you go!)_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Entreri walked out the door of the stateroom, set his alarm, then took several steps down the narrow hallway before leaning up against the wooden paneling to breathe for a moment. She was safely on board. The guildhouse was no longer under suspicion of harboring him, and Dwavhel was safely on board.

He'd been momentarily terrified—and the feeling was not one he was accustomed to. It put him even more on edge to know that he was capable of that particular brand of anxiety.

Within three breaths he'd calmed himself, however, and headed up topside to check for pursuit. He didn't think they were being followed, but he would not feel comfortable until he'd confirmed it.

On the upper deck, the lookout stood chatting idly with the helmsman, his spyglass idle in his hands.

"May I?" Entreri forced himself to ask politely.

"Of course, sir," the lookout replied, handing it over.

Entreri scanned the horizon behind him for any sign of a ship in pursuit. There was nothing. No sails, no fireballs. He passed the spyglass back to the young man on duty and even managed to say, "Thank you."

However, his veneer of calm gentility was shattered utterly when one of the rougher of the sailors commented, "Nice little piece you brought aboard."

The dagger was at his throat and the huge tattooed man found himself halfway over the rail as Entreri whispered savagely, "Do not so much as look at her at your peril."

Then as quickly as it happened, it was over. The big man rubbed at his neck anxiously as Entreri walked away from him, blending effortlessly into the shadows of the deck.

Downstairs, he opened the door of the stateroom to find Dwahvel sitting at the dressing table, fixing her hair, partially because her rapid departure that morning hadn't given her much time to work on her appearance and partially to give her fingers something to do beside throttle Artemis for dragging her into his breakdown.

Artemis set at least a half-dozen traps on the inside of the locked door and another half-dozen on the window before finally kneeling behind her to look past her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror.

"Isn't that overkill?" she asked. "We're in the middle of the ocean. Who's going to come calling out here?"

He looked at her seriously. "I've done some of my best work in the middle of the ocean," he explained. "I take no chances. Not where you are concerned."

He put his arm around her waist and leaned his head against her back as if listening to her heartbeat. Then he moved her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck, then her shoulder. She couldn't help the shiver that ran through her as he ran his fingers along her spine.

Soon he had all her clothes and they lay together on the double bunk, the motion of the waves adding its own interest to their activities. Afterwards as he lay beside her, his hand spread warm across her belly, she wondered if she still regretted sleeping with him.

She stroked his fingers and enjoyed the warmth of his body beside her. He had been so careful with her, so giving. She'd never dreamed that Artemis Entreri could be so considerate a lover.

She tried to tell him she wasn't that delicate, but stopped short of admitting he wasn't the first human she'd been with. That would be her secret, she decided.

The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, and she understood now how badly she could. She'd seen where Artemis was heading emotionally. She'd seen it in his eyes. She'd seen the vulnerability of his unguarded heart.

She'd seen love and trust, but lurking just behind was the shadow of fear.

And she knew that she had the power to break his heart. To possibly break it so badly that it would never heal. Damn that drow Jarlaxle, she thought again. Damn him for leaving her Artemis so defenseless.

She knew then that she couldn't leave, not until she knew he could take it. Not until he was strong enough to let her go.

As she ran her fingers over his, it never occurred to her that she might the one who couldn't let go. But for the first time in her life, she did wish she was taller.

The days passed slowly as they traveled.

He made every effort to be certain she was comfortable and the time in their cabin was passed very pleasantly indeed. But despite his concern, he kept her far too close for her liking.

He rarely let her out on deck, but never outside of his reach and always far away from any of the sailors on board.

Living under this possessiveness infuriated her at first, until she realized that she was the only female on board a ship containing some very rough-looking characters. She was forced to admit there might be a point to his paranoia.

However, they did dine in the evenings with Captain Jarrol and some of his officers, a nice enough group, if a little on the inexperienced side. To her confusion, Artemis had introduced himself that first evening as Cadderly Bonaduce and her as his wife Danica.

When she asked him why that night in the privacy of their stateroom, he replied, "Because Jarlaxle has already introduced himself as Drizzt Do'Urden across Faerun. And it pleases me to think that somewhere in the Snowflake Mountains, the good priest Cadderly knows I've stolen his name for my own nefarious purposes."

However, unless having dinner and making polite conversation was nefarious, Dwahvel couldn't see that Artemis had done anything to bring dishonor to the name. She did wisely refrain from saying so, however. Gods and priests were a particular sore spot in Artemis's psyche.

That did not stop him from going out each morning at dawn to watch the sun rise. She went with him a few times, watching from a comfortable perch on his lap as he sat on the upper deck. He'd wrap his arms and cloak around her for warmth as she leaned against his shoulder.

The morning was always so peaceful. There was very little activity on deck with usually only the night watch and the helmsman at their posts.

Artemis just sat there and watched as the day began to turn from gray to purple then red then gold. By the time the sky was blue, they were already back in their cabin as the deckhands began to come out for the day.

However, when they were just over a day out from Waterdeep, the morning was especially cool and she elected to stay inside in the warmth of the cabin. He'd given her a kiss on the forehead, thrown his cloak around his shoulders and gone out on his own.

The sky had just begun to turn colors through the window when he suddenly burst through the door again.

"Black sails," he explained, his face set and pale. He tossed his cloak to the side and reached into his bag for his heavy leather jerkin and buckled it into place. Then he buckled on his swordbelt, but removed the jeweled dagger from its sheath.

From somewhere in his bag he produced another dagger which he unceremoniously shoved into the sheath, then pressed the jeweled dagger into her palm as he knelt before her.

"Do not hesitate to use its darkest powers to save yourself," he charged her seriously. "Get ready quickly. They will be on us soon. I will never be far away."

He looked deeply into her face, reaching behind her to tangle his fingers in the curls at the back of her neck. Then he kissed her with a rough passion unlike any he'd allowed himself before and left the room, setting his security measures behind him.

"Be careful, Artemis," she called to him, but he was already gone.

On the deck, Entreri stood with the captain and watched as the pirate frigate came closer. Clearly the pirates had a magical advantage with the wind to gain on them so rapidly.

"I don't suppose your talents lie in magic, Mr. Bonaduce," Captain Jarrol ventured as the men made ready for battle.

"Not hardly," Entreri replied. "But I will be happy to lend my blade if you will but tell me where it will be of most use."

"Once they see that we have no wizards to fireball them into oblivion, I feel certain they'll make plans to board," Jarrol stated wearily. "Your blade will be of use all over the deck at that time."

When the pirate wizard volleyed a few fireballs into the sails with no reprisal, he redoubled his windmaking efforts to place the pirates within boarding range. Soon, they drew near enough to begin throwing grapples, which the crew of the ship cut away as fast as they could, delaying the moment when the pirates could swarm the decks.

Entreri, however, did not possess patience enough to wait for the pirates to actually make the decks of the ship. His intention was to see that they never got that close, especially since the window into his stateroom was within their direct line of fire.

So with a running leap, he cleared the space between the two ships and set into the nearest combatants, the red blade of Charon's Claw quickly dripping with the red blood of the first fallen pirate.

His bravery enheartened the other crewmen and they too proceeded to bring the attack to the pirate ship rather than wait. The archers in the rigging were so surprised by the attack of their prey that they failed to fire a single arrow into the fray until the combatants were so mixed in together they could not fire for hitting their own men.

Entreri quickly followed his first kill with two more. He surveyed the messy battle on the deck, coming to the quick conclusion that both crews were completely useless. He had no idea where these pirates had come from, but judging from their level of skill and organization, they wouldn't be around much longer even against such rank amateurs as the merchant sailors.

The wizard, however, was slightly more effective and continued to work his mix of spells against them. He blasted into the defending crewmen repeatedly, but Entreri soon realized that his powers consisted more of flash and bang than thoughtful use of a real arsenal.

Using the gauntlet, a very useful object he had to admit, he easily caught or deflected the bolts flung in his direction, then sprang close enough to slip his dagger's point inside the stupefied wizard's defenses.

To his surprise and the wizard's, the dagger slipped right in. No stoneskin. No defensive casting. He'd not fought a wizard this unprepared in an extremely long time. It almost felt disappointing to have bothered with him.

Entreri's dissatisfaction at dealing with the substandard wizard dissipated as he noticed some of the pirates making their way between the ships toward the cabins. Knowing that their time was limited, they likely were looking to lift any treasure found in the captain's cabin or staterooms while the crew was busy defending the decks.

That put them entirely too close to Dwahvel for Entreri's comfort. Almost idly, he took out a pair of pirates with swords—he'd hardly call them swordsmen—on his way back to the ship.

Three of the invaders stood in the hallway before his door, puzzling over the traps he'd set. That was both a good and a bad sign, he thought. Good in that they'd not gotten into the room, bad in that they were intelligent enough to realize the door was trapped.

"You'll not be entering that stateroom," he said with steel in his voice. "Either go back to your ship or die here. It matters not to me."

The first one chose to die there. He charged Entreri, his short sword before him. The narrowness of the hallway limited Entreri's use of Charon's Claw, but he made up for it by using the walls themselves as parrying tools for the pirate's savage, yet undisciplined attack. Entreri's dagger found entrance between the man's ribs within moments.

The next two chose to attack simultaneously, not precisely a good idea considering the narrowness of the quarters, and Entreri turned their lack of maneuverability to his advantage. Soon they stumbled against each other in their efforts to retreat before him.

One of them alerted him with a look of relief past Entreri's shoulder that they'd been joined by another combatant. Entreri glanced back and shifted his weight forward against the wall in time to avoid the arrow which buried itself in the shoulder of one of the pirates facing him.

This man fell back, dropping his sword, leaving only one fighter before him and one archer behind.

For a split second, Entreri half-wished he had access to Jarlaxle's library of tricks. He hated archers. They made their kills from a distance and never looked you in the eyes.

He stayed constantly on the move to prevent the archer from sighting him clearly. Then maneuvering the swordsman before him off balance, he pushed past him, putting himself behind the man as a shield instead. The archer forbore from shooting his own crewmate in the back, but stayed vigilant in case Entreri should kill the man and thus lose his shield.

Entreri however had no intention of killing his shield until he was ready. Instead he forced the pirate backwards toward the archer, intending to be within striking distance of both when that moment came.

He dropped the swordsman as intended, but before he made his play for the archer, he heard his alarm on the stateroom door. The pirate who'd taken the arrow in the shoulder had recovered enough to make his own play for the locked room, certain it must contain something extremely valuable to be so well-protected.

The logical part of Entreri's brain knew that there was no way such an amateur would get through all his security alive, much less get through it before he could get to him.

However, the emotional part of him could only see this man inches away from Dwahvel. And who knew what was going on outside the window as the pirates continued their attack. He ran back down the hallway to the stateroom, slamming the pirate aside and easily burying Charon's Claw into his belly.

An arrow whistling past his head reminded him of the archer that awaited and he turned his attention back to him. Without cover in the hallway, he chose speed and recklessness as his tactics of choice and hoped the archer had both a slow restringing time and poor aim under pressure.

Neither turned out to be true, as the man neatly clipped him in the shoulder, sending a burst of white pain down his arm and weakening his grip on his sword. His dagger, however, was secure in his hand, and he looked the archer in the eyes as he killed him.

Roughly, he jerked the arrow free, aware that a warm wash of blood came free with it. Then he ran down the hall to the stateroom. "Dwahvel, are you all right in there?" he called.

"I'm fine," she called back. "I think it's over."

Dwahvel could see out the window that the pirates had been overwhelmed by the forces aboard the ship--in particular, by the force of nature known as Artemis Entreri. Through her window, she'd watched as he'd singlehandedly taken down six pirates and the wizard. She didn't think she'd ever seen anything more frightening.

Or more exciting.

"Stay put," he called through the door. "I'll be back."

He ran back down the hall to see the crew reboarding the ship, several pirates in tow.

"Well done, Mr. Bonaduce," called Captain Jarrol.

"We've taken her. We've actually taken her," the young lookout added, proudly towing a disarmed prisoner. He was nearly giddy with relief.

All Entreri could think was that if that particular pirate crew had been the least bit organized, they would all be at the bottom of the Sea of Swords. He reminded himself never to sail with amateurs again—merchants or pirates.

He watched as the remaining prisoners were hustled off to the brig and made certain they were securely enclosed. The last thing he wanted was to be awakened in the night by a mutiny.

A skeleton crew was assigned to the pirate ship to sail her into Waterdeep. Entreri stayed on hand with the captain to be certain that he didn't make the mistake of putting all his best officers and crewmembers on the captured frigate, leaving only the rabble to run the merchant vessel.

After all, the last thing he wanted was to be awakened in the night by a mutiny.

Part of him was aware that his shoulder was still bleeding. Part of him knew that if he didn't get it taken care of, he'd likely pass out from loss of blood.

The other part was more concerned with Dwahvel. He determined that his own comfort could wait until the safety of the ship, and by extension her safety, was secured.

Once things were settled to his satisfaction, he turned to go back to his quarters. He noticed as he disabled the last of the traps on the door that his fingers were going a little numb. Then he opened the door and walked inside.

He'd managed to take two steps toward her when the room swirled with black spots and the floor reached up for him with a rush.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Dwahvel listened to the sound of Artemis opening the door with relief. Then she watched as he walked inside the room, took two steps and passed out cold on the floor. Somehow she managed to roll him over and was horrified by the amount of blood staining his shoulder.

She began to ransack their bags for a healing potion, only to come up short. Artemis wasn't one for carrying potions apparently, and she'd been rushed out the door so quickly she'd barely managed to pack her clothes.

She ran out the door of the cabin for help, nearly stumbling over the dead body lying almost directly in front of the door. Down the hall lay another, and another, and beyond him another. That brought Artemis's body count to eleven, she assumed as she ran toward the captain's cabin.

He was not in, so she ran to the upper deck. The captain stood there, overseeing the examination of the burned mainsail. She ran to him.

"Yes, Mistress Danica," he began kindly, "what can I do for you?"

"Arte—my husband is wounded. Do you have a healing potion?" she asked urgently.

He summoned a sailor from the deck below. "We'll get the medic to see to him immediately. We would not have made it through day without your husband's considerable skill with the blade," he added solemnly.

She nodded and ran back down the hall to the stateroom. Artemis lay where he'd fallen. His skin was a terrifying shade of gray. She quickly threw a blanket across him, making certain to cover his sword against accidental contact, then began working the buckles of his heavy vest.

It took all her effort to wrestle the heavy material aside enough to see where the arrowhead had pierced his shoulder. The archer had gotten a lucky hit as the arrow slipped past the vest through the arm opening at an angle.

She was appalled by the amount of blood that now soaked the side of his shirt, the blades of the arrow having clipped the shoulder artery, either on entrance or exit. She grabbed up a cloth from the dressing table and pressed it into the wound as hard as she could, but every heartbeat seemed to bring more blood to the surface.

Where was the medic? She was beginning to grow frantic. Then she heard a voice. Artemis's dagger. It spoke to her, told her of what it could do for him. All it needed was a victim.

"A victim?" she asked aloud in her anxiety.

She could be the victim, it suggested kindly.

She shrugged off its comments and concentrated on keeping pressure on the wound. The blood didn't seem to slow that she could see, but flowed steadily, soon soaking the cloth and staining her hands.

Where was that medic? she wondered. How long had it been?

"Don't you do this to me, Artemis Entreri," she commanded him desperately. She pressed her hand to his face. He was so cold, so pale. Her fingers left a little smear of blood on his skin. How much longer could he hold on?

She pressed the cloth with all her might, but his white shirt continued to turn bright red despite her efforts. Then his breath turned rapid and shallow.

A cold chill ran over her. She knew that sound. She'd heard it before. It was the sound of death.

"Please no," she whispered, her voice thin with fear. "Artemis, don't leave me."

_He doesn't have to die_, the dagger offered again, a solicitous tone in its silky voice. _All he needs is a little bit of life. He can take it from you. _

Her eyes were blurry with tears as she looked at the dagger where it lay on the edge of the bunk. How? she asked it.

Entreri woke to a surge of energy. He became aware that the hilt of the jeweled dagger lay in his hand and that Dwahvel lay unmoving across his chest.

He looked into her face. Her eyes were closed and she was completely still. Terrified, he pushed himself up, despite the still burning pain in his shoulder. He caught her as she fell limp into his arms.

He whispered her name and pulled her to him. What had she done? A cut in the center of her palm told him all he needed to know. With a roar he threw the dagger across the stateroom.

How could she have done something so foolish?

_She wanted to save you_, the dagger replied nonchalantly.

No, he tried to say, but the word wouldn't come out. He drew her closer and put his face in her hair, his breath catching in his chest, his eyes burning.

_She intended on giving just enough of herself to save you. Pity it took so much. _

The sobs wrenched themselves free from him then, tearing their way through his heart as he held her. Pain racked him, a savage black pain that ripped through his lungs. Tears like acid left burning furrows in his cheeks.

This was not how it was supposed to be. He would have died defending her. He would rather have died at her hand than for her to have given her life for him.

_Who says she's dead?_

The dagger's casual whisper caught in his mind like a white cloth in the branches of a bare tree.

He froze and called on all his senses—listening, waiting, hoping. Could he feel her breath, shallow and warm, on the damp skin of his face? He laid his fingertips lightly on her neck. Was that the faintest echo of a pulse?

When he forced himself to ease her free of his embrace so he could look at her, he saw it. He saw the barest rise and fall of her chest.

He lost himself in relief.

The door was partially open when the medic arrived, so he eased into the room, knocking lightly. "Mrs. Bonaduce?" he called softly.

He'd seen her husband fighting on deck during the raid. He'd watched as he'd easily cut down several pirates with methodical precision. He'd seen the cold look of disdain in his eyes as he'd caught the wizard's energy bolts in his strange red and black glove, then cut the spellcaster down with an almost effortless thrust of his dagger.

It was unnerving to see this same man sitting in the floor of the stateroom with the halfling lady in his arms, weeping openly like a child.

"Sir," the medic began, "is she injured?"

"Yes," came the reply. Entreri realized that though she was alive, the dagger had drained her dangerously low of her life. "Do you have a healing draught?"

The young man passed over a tiny bottle. Somehow Entreri managed to remove the stopper without spilling it though his hands shook. He forced them to still and tipped the little bottle carefully toward Dwahvel's lips.

"Drink it, love," he whispered and to his relief she began to swallow. Once the entire potion was inside her, he expected her to wake, to show some sign of improvement.

Nothing.

"Give me another," he demanded harshly.

"Sir, it will do no good," the medic tried to explain. But when Entreri's dark eyes met his, the young man knew a different sort of fear than he'd ever known. He could see his death in those eyes should he not obey immediately.

His hands trembling, the medic pulled another potion from the pouch on his belt and bravely tried again to reason with the dangerous man before him. "Sir, your lady will improve steadily over the next several hours. If she's still not well by the twelfth, the potion will work again. Until the twelfth hour it will do no good to give her another."

Entreri seemed to hear him as he held the potion tightly in his hand.

"Until then, she needs to rest," the medic offered.

Entreri rose from the floor in one effortless movement, the blanket dropping at his feet. It was then that the medic could see the amount of blood soaking into his shirt and trousers with a dark red stain.

"Sir," he began tentatively, "might I suggest that you take one of these for yourself. You appear to have been injured."

Despite the pain in his shoulder, Entreri shook his head. "I will be fine. It is my lady I'm concerned about."

Entreri placed her gently onto the bed though every fiber in his being demanded that he keep her in his arms. Her dress was red with blood. At first he feared some other injury, then he realized that the blood was his.

The medic stood there at the door, watching. "Might I suggest, sir," he offered quietly, "that you let me be certain your wound is not grave. Your lady will need you to be well when she awakens."

Entreri gave him a slight nod and the young man cautiously approached him. He eased the swordsman's heavy vest from his shoulders and pulled aside the blood-soaked shirt. The wound still bled, but not with the heaviness that he expected from the sheer volume of blood he'd observed. Considering how much he'd lost, the medic wondered how the man was still on his feet.

"Sir, drink this," he said, holding out another potion, firmly in his element as healer.

"I will be fine," Entreri replied, waving it away, his eyes never leaving the still, lovely face of the lady.

"Sir, I disagree. And your lady asked for me to come help you. I cannot allow her request to go unanswered," the young man tried again. To his relief, Entreri took the potion and swallowed it quickly, then threw the bottle aside to shatter against the wall.

The medic took that as his cue to depart and carefully backed out of the room with a quiet, "Let me know if I can be of further service."

Entreri heard the door snap shut behind the young man.

_She will eventually recover her strength. Given time._ The dagger's smug voice cut into his thoughts.

He looked down at it, his eyes venomous, but he would not touch it. "If she does not, you will find yourself at the bottom of the Sea of Swords," he declared, then he cut off the dagger's voice as if dropping a stone wall between them.

He looked down at himself, covered in blood, Charon's Claw at his hip, the hilt dangerously close to Dwahvel's sleeping form. He unbuckled the sword and tossed it to the floor next to the dagger.

A soft knock at the door signaled the return of the medic. He bore a large basin of hot water and a number of clean towels. Once he'd passed them into Entreri's hands, he gave him a little bow and walked away again.

There was so much blood on her, he realized. It soaked her dress and clung to the ringlets of her hair. Carefully he eased the dress from her and began the painstaking task of removing all signs of his blood, all signs of his foolishness from her.

Because he knew it was his foolishness that had caused it all. He'd known he was injured, but had ignored it. He'd allowed fear and pride to be his master and she had paid the price.

He never wanted to hurt her. And by bringing her into his life, by bringing her within arm's reach of his cursed dagger, he'd hurt her.

He could only imagine the horror that went through her as she experienced the touch of its blade. He knew what it felt like.

So many years ago, he too had frozen at the slightest prick of his skin as he felt the dagger pull on his life with a sick ferocity. But instead of merely fearing the weapon that had been used against him, he had desired it.

From that first encounter, from the instant he'd felt that incapacitating pull on his soul, his goal had been to own that power, to possess it for himself. That goal was realized when he took it from its previous owner's lifeless grip and placed it in his own.

Now he wished he was free of it.

He looked down at her still, small form. Just the barest taste of that dreadful power was enough to stop a mighty warrior in his tracks, and she'd been strong enough and willing enough to let it drink of her to the point of death. For him.

He watched her breathe, then pulled the coverlet higher around her shoulders, the blood from his own clothes leaving little red smears on the linens. So he stripped them off indifferently and tossed them to the side, then washed at the dried blood that covered his chest, stomach, hip, and thigh.

Another surge of guilt ran though him as he realized just how badly he'd been injured, just how afraid for him she must have been to have taken such a terrible step, to make such a terrible sacrifice. He threw on some clean clothing and knelt beside the low bunk.

What had he done to her?

He took her hand in his and waited.

He watched her breathe. He watched her sleep. And he waited.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

At noon, the medic checked on them again, then sent in a steward to bring the midday meal and remove the bloodstained clothes and linens for laundering.

Other than a quiet, "No," when asked if the lady had awakened, Entreri said nothing to them. His meal went untouched.

The hours continued to pass as he watched her sleep, watched her breathe. He watched and waited and thought.

However, his thoughts were no longer for the past. He'd begun to ponder the future. He'd taken her away from her entire life because he could not be without her. But what kind of future did he promise her?

What kind of future was possible for them?

Could he be a mercenary again? Could he be a bounty hunter? An assassin? A thief?

His life had been marked solely by taking. He took goods, he took information, he took treasures, he took lives. And he'd taken all these things with the understanding that no one would ever give him anything. If he wanted to have anything, he had to take it.

Then he looked at Dwahvel's sleeping form. She'd given him shelter. She'd given him companionship. She'd given him understanding. She'd given him love. She'd given him life. How could he repay her? What could he give her to match that?

He knew there was not much to him. He was an empty shell whose only skills lay in bringing death and pain to others. He barely knew how to be polite. He knew nothing of living among goodly people but no longer had any desire to live in the gutters.

He knew little of living outside the city. He tried to imagine himself as a farmer, but the image was so ridiculous he actually laughed, a harsh, barking, bitter laugh. They'd starve in a fortnight if he were the one attempting to feed them by the sweat of his brow.

All he knew was the sword. Somehow that would have to be enough.

That evening a knock came at the door and the captain entered, bearing the evening meal himself. Entreri had enough of his social wits about him to recognize the compliment.

"Is she better?" Jarrol asked quietly at the door.

"She's still sleeping," Entreri replied as evenly as he could. The thoughts that she wasn't better gnawed at the edges of his mind like rats.

"We are very grateful for your considerable assistance against the pirates," he captain began. "If you need any voucher for entrance into Waterdeep when we arrive, I will be happy to supply it."

"Thank you," Entreri managed.

They sat in silence for a moment longer, then the captain moved to the door. "Let us know if we can be of any assistance, Mr. Bonaduce," he added.

Jarrol's surprise, his guest spoke up. "That is not my name. Do not call me by it again."

The tone was hard, but not threatening, so Jarrol was emboldened enough to reply, "Your actions defending this ship speak for you enough, sir. You have no need for a name on board." Then with a polite bow, he left.

Very shortly afterward, the medic arrived at the door. "Mr--"he began, then cut himself off, having been warned by the captain. "Sir, it is time for another healing potion for your lady."

"I know."

"If I knew more of the nature of her injury, I might be able to help further," the medic ventured.

Entreri first glared at him, then softened. Perhaps he might be able to help her. "She used a magical artifact to save my life. But the artifact took her strength to do it."

The medic frowned. "In that case, the potion might not be of much use to her. I recommend you take it instead. There was a great deal of blood upon you this morning."

Entreri shook his head. He would be fine.

"If she is not well when we arrive in Waterdeep, I would recommend going to a priest for healing," the young man added as he opened the door to depart. "I will check with you again at midnight."

Then the young man departed.

Go to a priest. Go to the gods. The thought rankled in Entreri's brain.

The gods had never done anything for him before. Why would they start now? He wondered about Dwahvel's god then realized he had no idea who it was. Certainly it was someone goodly, but beyond that he could not guess.

He pushed the idea far out of his mind and instead took up the little bottle the medic had left with him. Then he moved himself onto the bed beside the sleeping Dwahvel and eased her into his arms so that she was half sitting against him.

He pulled the top free and tipped the potion into her mouth, all the time talking to her, encouraging her to swallow it, to wake up.

She stirred just a little in his arms, but did not awaken. Part of him realized that he should put her down and let her sleep, let the potion continue to work.

But he held her instead, pulling her across him so that her head rested against his shoulder. He leaned his cheek against her hair and caught a curl in his fingers.

The hours passed. At midnight the medic knocked and asked quietly through the door if he needed anything.

"No."

Entreri leaned back with the solid wall of the bulkhead at his back, the door and window secured against intruders of all kinds—physical, magical, and otherwise. The night was quiet. Stars flickered through the panes of the window in the darkness of the cabin. The ocean rolled gently beneath him. Dwahvel lay sleeping in his arms. The barest hints of a feeling came over him, one he was not familiar with.

"Artemis?" she whispered, her voice drowsy.

"I'm here, love."

"Good." Then she was quiet once more.

The feeling flowed through him again, and this time he could give it a name. Peace.

She'd not awoken again during the night, but her sleep had become more natural, less frighteningly still.

He'd eased her onto the pillows and rose to watch the sun rise through the cabin window. They would reach Waterdeep sometime during the day.

"Artemis?" came her voice again.

He was at her side in a heartbeat. "Yes, love."

"Don't leave me."

"Never."

Then she slept again. He tried rousing her once they made port, but she only murmured at him. Finally, he was reduced to dressing her himself. It was with considerable trepidation that he tumbled through the clothing packed in her bag of holding. What would she wish to wear? he wondered helplessly.

At last he resorted to picking something he liked, a dress that reminded him of spring, and wrapped her up in her cloak against the cool of the air. He could tell they were much farther north, the heat of Calimshan giving way to a mountain cool that reminded him of Damara.

It was only after gathering their bags, buckling on his sword, and taking Dwahvel's sleeping form into his arms that he realized that the thoughts of Damara didn't bring back any emotions, any associations, any memories other than that of the cool mountain air.

If he considered the events of Damara, he could remember them. If, for instance, he recalled Grandmaster Kane and his unholy touch, he could recall it and it still made him angry. But the anger was directed at Kane and not at himself. The anger was manageable and understandable. It no longer threatened to catch up like wildfire inside him.

He walked out on deck and was greeted with "Good morning, sir," from nearly every sailor he passed. Even the huge tattooed man he'd nearly thrown overboard stepped aside to allow him to pass with a deferential nod.

"I've summoned a carriage for you sir," Captain Jarrol stated as he approached, "and have paid him enough coin to take you anywhere within the city."

Entreri just looked at him. They walked down the gangplank, the captain taking the lead. Then he held open the door of the carriage to allow Entreri to step inside with Dwahvel in his arms. Before closing the door, Jarrol held out a leather bag to him.

"This is your portion of the bounty on the pirate ship," he added. "My officers and I are very grateful to you."

Entreri took the bag, noting its weight. "There hasn't been time to collect a bounty on that ship, Captain," he noted.

Jarrol shook his head and replied, "I didn't think you would be inclined to wait for the official settlement. I will see my portion at that time."

Entreri realized the captain had made the bounty out of his own pocket. "Thank you," he managed to reply.

"I hope your lady recovers, sir. Our best to her, please, when she awakens," Jarrrol added, then closed the door with a bow.

The captain strode back to the ship, leaving Entreri speechless.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked from above.

He needed a place for Dwahvel to stay. "To an inn," he answered.

The driver eased the horses away from the dock and asked, "Which ward, sir?"

Entreri's immediate inclination was to head for the darkest, seediest, most inconspicuous hole on the docks. Then he looked down at the sleeping Dwahvel. "Castle Ward," he replied. "Someplace nice."

They wound their way through the streets curving up the mountainside into the more affluent section of the city. "This is a nice place, sir. Quiet and safe, but not too flashy or expensive," the driver offered as they pulled up to an inn on the eastern side of the mountain.

In his previous existence, it was exactly the sort of place Entreri would not be caught dead in—full of merchant families, merry travelers, and small children. However, he knew the first rule of remaining unrecognized—never go to the types of places you customarily frequent; go to the opposite.

Therefore, it made good sense to stay here and at least the sheets would be clean.

The driver offered to stay with the still sleeping Dwahvel in the carriage while he went inside, but Entreri was not ready to let her out of his sight. Instead, he carried her inside and asked for a room.

The desk clerk pulled out his ledger and placed a key on the desk. "Name, sir?" he asked, pen in hand.

Entreri debated his answer then made his choice, "Entreri. Artemis Entreri." The name did not cause the man's eyes to flicker open in fear, did not cause him to drop his pen in trepidation. He merely asked how to spell it.

Then he asked if Mr. Entreri needed assistance. Despite the negative reply, the clerk walked him to the room, unlocked the door, and held it open for him as Entreri went inside. Then with a little bow, the clerk placed the key on a table and left.

The room was three times larger than the stateroom of the ship with a sofa, fireplace, and large bed. There was even an attached washroom.

Entreri considered for a moment how much of his life had been spent in disreputable dives with insect infested mattresses, paper thin walls, and cutthroats at every hand. How much of his life had been spent rolled up in his cloak against a tree or a building, catching rest as he could while watching for his victim to appear.

Even in his quarters at the various houses he'd been employed by, he'd never surrounded himself with much that anyone would call luxury, fearing that softness or warmth or convenience would create weakness.

He placed Dwahvel on the softness of the bed, arranging the pillows beneath her and removing her cloak. A warm-looking woven blanket lay folded at the foot and he pulled it over her, taking a seat at her side. She'd barely stirred the entire trip from the docks.

Now she rolled over on her side, sighing a little as she reached for him. Quickly he unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on a side chair. He wanted neither of his blades within her reach.

"Where are you?" she asked, her eyes never opening.

"Right here."

"I'm so tired, Artemis. I'm so. . ." her voiced trailed off again.

He brushed back her chestnut hair. Her skin was smooth like cream, with the smallest of laugh crinkles at her eyes where her life was beginning to leave memories on her face. When was the last time he heard her laugh? When was the last time he saw her smile?

He wanted her back—awake, alive, laughing, smiling. Angry even. But he wanted her back. He wanted to see her eyes again. He realized he didn't know what color they were. He tried to remember. How had he never noticed the color of her eyes?

He'd always seen her in the dim light of a dark room. By firelight, by lamplight, but rarely by daylight. They were creatures of darkness, of subterfuge and secrets. Now he wanted to see her by the light of the sun, out of the shadows.

He rose from her side and pulled open the curtains. The act was a violation of his deepest principles. Doing so invited inquiry. He could be seen. His actions were visible to any passing by.

But when she opened her eyes for him again, he would be able to see their color. He would know. He was done with shadows and night. He wanted to see.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Artemis Entreri had a new definition of helplessness. Worse than being unable to help himself was being unable to help Dwahvel.

He paced the floor of the room. Over the past few hours, she'd only gotten worse. And there was nothing he could do for her.

She didn't wake, but she didn't rest either. When he tried to talk to her, to touch her, sometimes she'd cling to him, sometimes she fight him.

Sometimes she'd cry--awful, heartbroken sobs that he couldn't bear, especially when she begged him through her tears not to leave her.

He walked back to the bed where she tossed again fitfully in her sleep, in the grip of some unseen terror. She mumbled under her breath, some of it unintelligible, some recognizable. He heard her begging him to catch her, then to let her go.

He didn't know what to do.

He sat next to her and took her hand in his. She was so pale, her eyelashes startlingly dark against the translucence of her skin.

At last she grew quiet, but he had no idea how long it would last. He had no idea when the stillness of sleep would give way again to unrest, to terror. And with each bout of restlessness, the sleep that followed seemed deeper, less like rest and more like death.

All he knew was that he had to do something. He'd already trapped the windows--no neighborhood was nice enough for him to feel safe without them—so he only needed to trap the door before he went down the hall to seek the nearest apothecary or healer.

The clerk offered to send the housekeeper up to sit with his daughter while he went after assistance.

"My wife," Entreri corrected without thought.

"My apologies," the clerk returned smoothly and went to call the housekeeper. Entreri went back to the room and waited, anxiously watching Dwahvel sleep.

A knock at the door signaled the housekeeper's arrival and Entreri opened the door to admit a talkative middle-aged woman who immediately began to ask a lot of impertinent and annoying questions such as his name and what was wrong with his wife.

"Oh," the woman sighed as she went to the bed, "she's a little halfling lady. I thought she was your daughter when you brought her in. And lovely, isn't she? I do hope she's not very ill."

Entreri fought back the urge to strangle the woman and made her promise not to leave Dwahvel's side until he returned. He buckled on his sword belt, taking a malicious satisfaction in the widening of the housekeeper's eyes as she got a good look at Charon's Claw with its bone hilt and startlingly red coloration.

"Artemis?" he heard Dwahvel call. Ignoring the woman, he went to her side and knelt down to take her hand in his.

"Yes, I'm right here."

"Don't leave me." Her voice was tired and pale, and she didn't open her eyes.

"I'm going to get help. I'll be back soon."

"Don't let it take me, Artemis," she whispered.

"Never, love. I won't let you go," he replied softly, bringing her fingers to his lips for a kiss.

Then he rose from the bedside and addressed the woman standing there, her mouth slightly agape. "I need to find a healer. Now." His tone was as hard with her as it had been soft with the halfling lady. She was dumbstruck by the mercilessness in his eyes and pointed out the window at a little park just down the street.

A small amphitheater was set in the mountainside with semicircular rows of benches and a shell of sorts behind it. A silver haired man in a rosy pink and purple robe sat on one of the benches. "Him," the woman stammered. "Go see him."

Entreri figured that was close enough and went to the window. "Don't try to open the door," he warned on the way out. Then after opening the window and slipping down the few feet to the walk below, he closed it again, fiddled at the outside, and warned through the glass, "Don't try to open the window either."

Entreri walked swiftly to the amphitheater, moving quickly to intercept the man who had risen and was walking away.

"Are you a healer?" Entreri asked him abruptly, cutting off his escape with an outstretched hand.

"At times," the man replied evenly. "Who needs healing?"

"My wife," Entreri said, growing a little concerned by the ease with which the word was slipping to his lips. Dwahvel was not his wife. "My wife," he heard himself repeat, unable to stop himself that time either.

"Then let us see to her, Mister--"

A thousand aliases sprang to mind—he even thought of using Jarlaxle Baenre. But instead he answered, "Artemis Entreri. Of Calimport."

"Mr. Entreri, my name is Brother Ansel. Let us see if we can't help your wife," the man said with an unassuming smile and gesture for Entreri to lead the way.

They walked back to the inn, Entreri pausing at the door to disable the traps he'd set. He sincerely hoped the housekeeper had heeded his instructions. Her dead body would not make a good first impression.

To his relief, the old busybody was wiser than she looked. She sat in a side chair and looked up at them as they entered. "She's been sleeping, sir," the woman stated without meeting Entreri's eyes, then gave him a quick bouncy curtsy and left the room, careful not to touch the door on her way out.

Brother Ansel pulled the side chair over to the bed, sat down, and took Dwahvel's hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up at Entreri. "What thing did this to her?" he asked sadly.

"This." Entreri held the dagger out to the healer, an obstinate part of him almost daring the priest to take it.

Brother Ansel reached for it without hesitation and sat for a moment with the dagger's jeweled length resting on his palms. "This weapon is is a terrible thing," he stated after a moment, looking Entreri squarely in the eyes.

"And I have done terrible things with it," Entreri stated without prevarication. "But all she has done is save my life. Now you save hers."

The healer passed the dagger back to Entreri, who took it and slipped it back into its sheath. Then Entreri unbuckled the swordbelt and placed sword and dagger on a table on the opposite side of the room before returning to Dwahvel's bedside.

Meanwhile Brother Ansel had taken Dwahvel's hands in his and closed his eyes again. Entreri had not been privy to many clerical healings. He tended to avoid clerics like the plague. So he was not certain what he would see.

He was more than a bit surprised to see nothing. No bright lights, no strange chanting. Just a silver-haired man sitting quietly.

Just as he'd come to the conclusion that he was going to see nothing—including no improvement in Dwahvel's condition—her eyes flickered open and she looked at him. By the light of day, he could see that her eyes were green.

The priest rose and took a step back as Entreri stepped forward. He couldn't hold back the relief as he gathered her into his arms. "I am so sorry," was all he could say to her as he held her close.

She spoke to him quietly, her words comforting him, as he held her and breathed.

Then he looked up for the priest. He needed to pay him.

But Brother Ansel was gone, the door closed behind him.

That night, they didn't make love. They talked instead, holding each other close. He wanted to know everything about her, so she told him.

She told him about her childhood and about the strange and tragic series of events that had led her to Calimport. She told him tales of her years as the guildmistress of The Copper Ante, and his respect for her went up a few more notches as he began to appreciate the skill it took to negotiate the delicate halfling balance between nonthreatening and indispensable.

He thought he knew her. He thought he understood her. But he'd barely scratched the surface in knowing and appreciating everything that was Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. Everything about her was fascinating. He'd never realized that he could be so interested in another person, in her life, in what she'd done, in what she wanted to do.

But in appreciating what she was, he came to realize what he'd done to her by making her leave it all behind.

"Do you want to go back to Calimport?" he asked at last, taking comfort that in the dark she couldn't see his face.

"Right now? Not really," she answered casually. "I've never been to Waterdeep."

"Then you'll stay with me for a while?"

Dwahvel heard the anxiety in his voice. He was stronger. He wasn't the emotional wreck that had burst through her door in Calimport. But she knew she could still break his heart.

And the last thing she wanted to do was break his heart. Holding the heart of a man like Artemis Entreri was an awesome responsibility. To see that he had one was a wonder. To actually hold it was a miracle. She didn't play around with miracles.

"I'll stay with you, Artemis," she replied, snuggling closer against him. Then she felt his fingers twisting around the curls of her hair and declared she was tired of talking. So they made love instead.

The next morning before dawn, Entreri awoke to a feeling of peace—and happiness. Dwahvel lay curled up beside him, her fingers intertwined in his, her body warm and soft against him.

To the best of his knowledge, no one within at least one square mile of his current position wanted to kill him.

To the best of his knowledge, no one within at least one square mile of his current position even knew who he was.

He kissed her forehead and slipped out of bed to dress. Out of habit, he reached for his swordbelt, but instead he pulled the plain dagger from his pack and wore it alone.

With a few touches to the traps at the window, he slipped outside.

The sky was still dark and the air was cool as he walked down the street. Soon he found himself standing in the amphitheater where he'd met the priest.

The semicircular benches were wet with dew, but he swept one dry and took a seat. Interestingly enough, the shell that should have been before the benches was behind it. Instead of facing in, all the benches curved out into the open air of the mountainside.

Within moments he knew why.

The theater was positioned perfectly to frame dawn breaking over the city.

Entreri watched as the sun began to rise before him, slipping rosy pink fingers into the purplish gray of the sky. He watched as the horizon went from dusty red to pink to gold. He watched as the darkness around him faded into violet, then blue.

Then he heard a voice a little distance behind him.

"It's beautiful, isn't it, Mr. Entreri," Brother Ansel said. "Every dawn brings a new day."

"Yes," Entreri heard himself reply, but for some reason he was unable to tear his eyes from the light of the dawn to look back at the priest.

"I hope your wife is well this morning."

"She's not my wife."

Brother Ansel laughed a little at that and began to walk away. "Are you certain of that, Artemis?"

Entreri finally managed to turn to speak to him, but the priest was already well down the street. He looked back at the dawn for a moment, then rose to go back to Dwahvel.

And he wondered if he was certain.

_(AN: That's it. For this installment. It has been suggested that I let folks know there is a sequel. It's called Dawn. _

_Meanwhile, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I really, really appreciate your letting me know you're out there.)_


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